I must admit, I was really pleased with my efforts training for my 10K over the tailend of the summer. However, I realise that doing this during the winter months is a whole different challenge. So, I decided to sign up for circuit training with the army - that'll motivate me.
I do it every Tuesday and Thursday evening. I get in from work at about 18:30, eat a spoonful of peanut butter, drink some water, and pull on my running gear. I run up to the park (it takes around 10 and half minutes) and then we run, crawl and exercise aorund in the mud for an hour, before I run home again (it takes about 12 minutes on the way back).
It's exhausting.
We get a coloured bib to wear (like back in my netball days) and we do a variety of exercises. I've learned a lot. For instance, I now know there a lots of different kinds of press-ups (regular, diamond, marine, seal, can-can, etc) and that I can't do any of them.
One night the instructor kept shouting "grenade", which meant we had to hit the deck and crawl like a commando. I was filthy. I had mud all over my face, in my hair and when I got home and peeled off my running tights - I had three distinctive stripes down the outside of either leg. Good branding. 'Date-guy' was coming round for dinner that night and arrived just before I got back. He got out of his car and genuinely thought I'd been in an accident. He ended up doing the cooking while I scrubbed the mud off myself. After dinner, I fell asleep almost immediately and he had to wake me up and tell me to go through to bed. The next morning he told me it had been a wonderful evening. I smiled and said "really?" and then I realised he was being sarcastic.
I think the worst exercise I've done is one where we had to lie down, roll over and jump up ... 30 times. I swear, by about half way through I didn't know where I was and was really just rolling in the mud and flopping about like a fish on the beach.
"Number 48, what are you doing?" "Number 48?" "Number 48!"
(Oh shit, I think that's me) "Erm ..."
"Are you actually having an epileptic fit?"
"Maybe."
Sometimes they tell us to run into the copse, find a branch and do 20 pull-ups. I told my mum this and she said "Oh, did you manage to find a branch that could hold you?". Funny.
It's tough and I dread going but it's fine when I get there. And, most importantly, I notice a difference in my fitness levels. So, I'm hoping it pays off when I do my runs next year.
Fingers crossed.
Saturday, December 06, 2008
Sunday, November 30, 2008
The Joy of Life
It feels like I've been insanely busy over the last month. But now I've come to write about it, I can't think what I've been up to. Let's see ...
Work has been better (if a lot more uncertain and precarious). I've steered things my own way on the next issue of the magazine and, as a result, I think it's looking like the best one yet. I've also been expending a lot of time and effort on my 'chocolate-dipped carrots' mission to show other areas of the company how to improve their communications and write things that people will actually take notice of. (I had originally planned to go down the road of 'big stick' mission, until my boss told me - repeatedly - that there were no sticks.)
I'm also getting to go on a scriptwriting course run by the BBC, which I'm very excited about.
After four weeks off allowing the eyes to recover, I've been at the pool every morning. The snogging couple have mysteriously disappeared and seem to have been replaced by touchy-feely dive-bombing couple. The new eyes are brilliant under the water and I don't have to faff about trying to get my eyes to accept contact lenses at 6:30 in the morning.
I wear a swim cap because the chlorine was ruining the colour of my hair. I look thoroughly mingin' and think I'd die if someone actually recognised me. Last week, when I'd been swimming for about 10 minutes, I stopped at the end, ran my hand round the back of my head, and realised that I hadn't tucked my hair into the cap. It must have looked like I was wearing it for reasons of fashion rather than necessity. How embarrassing. (Though still not as embarrassing as the time I failed to notice my swimsuit had ripped itself open across my chest until I was out the pool and walking to the showers.)
Talking about hair, Emma cut me a fuller fringe last weekend. I've been growing my hair for over three years now and I get really bored just asking for the same thing, so I thought a fringe would give me a bit of a change without getting in the way of my Rapunzelesque plans. I really like it and think it makes me look younger. Two people have complimented me on it on Facebook and Kirsty at work said it was "much better" - which kinda made it sound like it was awful before, but she clarified that she didn't think it was bad before, it's just "much better" now. (Kirsty is very honest. She'll actually tell women she doesn't know whether or not something suits them in the changing rooms. Harsh, but helpful.)
I've been out to see Leanne, Ella and baby Holly a few times. Holly is cute as a button but does scream her head off a lot more than Ella ever did. I was saying to Leanne that Holly cries with such force that her features disappear and she looks like Cartman in South Park when he gets angry - just a face with a cross on it. It must be really, really exhausting for Leanne.
The woman at my work who kept telling me to hurry up and have kids has abated her efforts somewhat. I found a successful way of getting her to shut up was to answer her truthfully whenever she asked what I was up to at the weekend: cocktails with friends at Harvey Nick's, long weekend in Berlin, girly-weekend up North, dinner cooked by 'date-guy', long run on the beach, shopping for new boots, coffee and a book in Waterstones, etc. And then wait for the golden silcence that always follows. I realise my existence my seem shallow, but it's always really good fun.
I still assume I'll feel like I want to have kids at some stage, but it does seem like there's ever more to compromise, sacrifice and risk. Someone recently told me about their experience of giving birth and having to be stitched up again. There was concern that she'd "ripped right through", so the doctor stuck a finger into her ass, wiggled it around and said "No, no, we're fine". Then she heard them saying things like: "I'm not sure where this bit goes", "well, you won't be quite the same as you were before", and "There won't be any blood getting to this bit, so we may as well cut it off". She still doesn't know what they cut off. I reassuringly told her it was probably her clitoris. I swear, I almost fainted when she was telling me this story.
What else ...
I've started fitness training with the army twice a week. Outside in the cold and dark. My experiences with this merit an entry on their own, so I'll write that up soon. I've also signed myself up for a 5K in January, a half marathon (yikes) in April and a 10K in May. I've also bullied Louise at work into running twice a week at lunchtimes with me.
Oh, and I'm just back from a family trip to Berlin (again, I'll write this one up more fully on its own). After all the Christmas markets, I feel distinctively 'Christmassy' and sent out the invitations to my Blessing of the Tree parties, booked in my boozy lunch sessions and will shortly be getting the tree down from the attic. Well, after I've had today's chocolate from my advent calendar.
Work has been better (if a lot more uncertain and precarious). I've steered things my own way on the next issue of the magazine and, as a result, I think it's looking like the best one yet. I've also been expending a lot of time and effort on my 'chocolate-dipped carrots' mission to show other areas of the company how to improve their communications and write things that people will actually take notice of. (I had originally planned to go down the road of 'big stick' mission, until my boss told me - repeatedly - that there were no sticks.)
I'm also getting to go on a scriptwriting course run by the BBC, which I'm very excited about.
After four weeks off allowing the eyes to recover, I've been at the pool every morning. The snogging couple have mysteriously disappeared and seem to have been replaced by touchy-feely dive-bombing couple. The new eyes are brilliant under the water and I don't have to faff about trying to get my eyes to accept contact lenses at 6:30 in the morning.
I wear a swim cap because the chlorine was ruining the colour of my hair. I look thoroughly mingin' and think I'd die if someone actually recognised me. Last week, when I'd been swimming for about 10 minutes, I stopped at the end, ran my hand round the back of my head, and realised that I hadn't tucked my hair into the cap. It must have looked like I was wearing it for reasons of fashion rather than necessity. How embarrassing. (Though still not as embarrassing as the time I failed to notice my swimsuit had ripped itself open across my chest until I was out the pool and walking to the showers.)
Talking about hair, Emma cut me a fuller fringe last weekend. I've been growing my hair for over three years now and I get really bored just asking for the same thing, so I thought a fringe would give me a bit of a change without getting in the way of my Rapunzelesque plans. I really like it and think it makes me look younger. Two people have complimented me on it on Facebook and Kirsty at work said it was "much better" - which kinda made it sound like it was awful before, but she clarified that she didn't think it was bad before, it's just "much better" now. (Kirsty is very honest. She'll actually tell women she doesn't know whether or not something suits them in the changing rooms. Harsh, but helpful.)
I've been out to see Leanne, Ella and baby Holly a few times. Holly is cute as a button but does scream her head off a lot more than Ella ever did. I was saying to Leanne that Holly cries with such force that her features disappear and she looks like Cartman in South Park when he gets angry - just a face with a cross on it. It must be really, really exhausting for Leanne.
The woman at my work who kept telling me to hurry up and have kids has abated her efforts somewhat. I found a successful way of getting her to shut up was to answer her truthfully whenever she asked what I was up to at the weekend: cocktails with friends at Harvey Nick's, long weekend in Berlin, girly-weekend up North, dinner cooked by 'date-guy', long run on the beach, shopping for new boots, coffee and a book in Waterstones, etc. And then wait for the golden silcence that always follows. I realise my existence my seem shallow, but it's always really good fun.
I still assume I'll feel like I want to have kids at some stage, but it does seem like there's ever more to compromise, sacrifice and risk. Someone recently told me about their experience of giving birth and having to be stitched up again. There was concern that she'd "ripped right through", so the doctor stuck a finger into her ass, wiggled it around and said "No, no, we're fine". Then she heard them saying things like: "I'm not sure where this bit goes", "well, you won't be quite the same as you were before", and "There won't be any blood getting to this bit, so we may as well cut it off". She still doesn't know what they cut off. I reassuringly told her it was probably her clitoris. I swear, I almost fainted when she was telling me this story.
What else ...
I've started fitness training with the army twice a week. Outside in the cold and dark. My experiences with this merit an entry on their own, so I'll write that up soon. I've also signed myself up for a 5K in January, a half marathon (yikes) in April and a 10K in May. I've also bullied Louise at work into running twice a week at lunchtimes with me.
Oh, and I'm just back from a family trip to Berlin (again, I'll write this one up more fully on its own). After all the Christmas markets, I feel distinctively 'Christmassy' and sent out the invitations to my Blessing of the Tree parties, booked in my boozy lunch sessions and will shortly be getting the tree down from the attic. Well, after I've had today's chocolate from my advent calendar.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Getting ready
My birthday was on a Monday this year, so we celebrated it two days early by going out on Saturday night. Always conscious of time and the burning need to do 'stuff', I've given a lot of thought to what I want to do before I'm 30. I wanted to map this out so I'd have something to reference for the next 12 months. So, on Thursday morning I went to Woolworth's and bought myself some felt tip pens.
I started drawing. There are 10 things on the map for the year ahead:
1) Run a half-marathon (well, I managed the 10K after only 8 weeks so why not keep going?)
2) Finish the book (if only to stop being harassed by people asking 'when'?)
3) Go to a full-on music festival (no camping though)
4) Buy a red sports car (oh. yes.)
5) Go to Africa (even just Morocco. I'd happily wait longer for the five-star safari)
6) Learn to take proper photographs (Love taking snaps, but they'd be better if I were better)
7) Learn to ski properly (thrill seeker seeks part in Bond movie)
8) Learn to horse ride (someone at work went on a riding holiday through the desert to Petra. I said that would be ace and maybe I'd do it next year. She asked: "do you ride?" I said: "Not horses, no." She said: "That might be a problem." I said: "Well, I can learn.")
9) Master sign language (This is a random one. I don't know any deaf people and no one seems to 'interpret for the deaf' on Scotland Today anymore (I'd love that gig), but I figure it might be handy for venting frustration with people but in a such a way that I can keep my job; or if I'm kidnapped and need to send secret messages as to my whereabouts ... you know, if they film me ... OK, it's just random.)
10) Have visited 30 countries (Currently on 25 so would love to tick off another 5 this year).
I also drew out a 'life so far' map of all the significant things I'd done. It made me feel great because there's absolutely loads on it. And, aside from passing my driving test, living abroad for a year, graduating from uni and getting married, I've done it all in the last three years alone. It reaffirmed to me what I can achieve when I stay open to opportunities, jump at everything and put my mind to it. Good work!
On Saturday morning, I ordered some hi-viz running togs in preparation for starting up again next week. I can't wait. Then I took myself of to the hairdressers to get my highlights done (and to ask for big 60s hair for my night out). I always feel great after Emma sorts out my hair, so on my way there I decided that when I was finished I'd take myself up to Harvey Nick's to get my nails done. Well, it was my birthday.
I arrived at the Champagne Nail Bar with my ab-fab new hair and asked if they had any space for a file and polish. Amazingly they did. "What colour would you like?" the manicurist asked. "Oooh ... em... something red." "What kind of red, we have about 8 shades?" I had a look at the colours on offer at the bar. The best red was the Victoriana, but I also took a fancy to the Black Taxi (black nails are very on trend). I couldn't choose between them so the manicurist made some other suggestions. I ended up selecting an amazing dark grey colour.
Manicurist: "Any special occasion?"
Me: "Well, it's my birthday on Monday so we're going out tonight."
Manicurist: "Wow. It's my birthday on Monday too. We're like birthday twins."
Me: "uh-huh."
Manicurist: "I'm going to be 18."
Me: "Ah, that's nice. I'm not. I'm really not."
They gave me a glass of champagne while my nails were drying and I enjoyed it. Then I walked home and started getting ready. After over a week, I was finally allowed to wear eye make-up again - so I went to town with it.
Sinead, Jo and Kerry arrived and I made us all Dirty Mojitos. Kerry asked: "What's 'dirty' about them?" I said: "They've got Chlamydia." But they were dirty cause I'd made the sugar syrup with brown sugar. They checked out my life maps and said I should get them framed(I can't draw for toffee, but apparently my efforts have such "vibrancy" and "humour" as to make them endearing.) We met Mog at the restaurant and she'd handily ordered some sangria. We scoffed the delicious tapas and quaffed a few bottles of Campo Viejo Crianza. It was joyous.
I'm 29 and , surprise, surprise, it feels right.
I started drawing. There are 10 things on the map for the year ahead:
1) Run a half-marathon (well, I managed the 10K after only 8 weeks so why not keep going?)
2) Finish the book (if only to stop being harassed by people asking 'when'?)
3) Go to a full-on music festival (no camping though)
4) Buy a red sports car (oh. yes.)
5) Go to Africa (even just Morocco. I'd happily wait longer for the five-star safari)
6) Learn to take proper photographs (Love taking snaps, but they'd be better if I were better)
7) Learn to ski properly (thrill seeker seeks part in Bond movie)
8) Learn to horse ride (someone at work went on a riding holiday through the desert to Petra. I said that would be ace and maybe I'd do it next year. She asked: "do you ride?" I said: "Not horses, no." She said: "That might be a problem." I said: "Well, I can learn.")
9) Master sign language (This is a random one. I don't know any deaf people and no one seems to 'interpret for the deaf' on Scotland Today anymore (I'd love that gig), but I figure it might be handy for venting frustration with people but in a such a way that I can keep my job; or if I'm kidnapped and need to send secret messages as to my whereabouts ... you know, if they film me ... OK, it's just random.)
10) Have visited 30 countries (Currently on 25 so would love to tick off another 5 this year).
I also drew out a 'life so far' map of all the significant things I'd done. It made me feel great because there's absolutely loads on it. And, aside from passing my driving test, living abroad for a year, graduating from uni and getting married, I've done it all in the last three years alone. It reaffirmed to me what I can achieve when I stay open to opportunities, jump at everything and put my mind to it. Good work!
On Saturday morning, I ordered some hi-viz running togs in preparation for starting up again next week. I can't wait. Then I took myself of to the hairdressers to get my highlights done (and to ask for big 60s hair for my night out). I always feel great after Emma sorts out my hair, so on my way there I decided that when I was finished I'd take myself up to Harvey Nick's to get my nails done. Well, it was my birthday.
I arrived at the Champagne Nail Bar with my ab-fab new hair and asked if they had any space for a file and polish. Amazingly they did. "What colour would you like?" the manicurist asked. "Oooh ... em... something red." "What kind of red, we have about 8 shades?" I had a look at the colours on offer at the bar. The best red was the Victoriana, but I also took a fancy to the Black Taxi (black nails are very on trend). I couldn't choose between them so the manicurist made some other suggestions. I ended up selecting an amazing dark grey colour.
Manicurist: "Any special occasion?"
Me: "Well, it's my birthday on Monday so we're going out tonight."
Manicurist: "Wow. It's my birthday on Monday too. We're like birthday twins."
Me: "uh-huh."
Manicurist: "I'm going to be 18."
Me: "Ah, that's nice. I'm not. I'm really not."
They gave me a glass of champagne while my nails were drying and I enjoyed it. Then I walked home and started getting ready. After over a week, I was finally allowed to wear eye make-up again - so I went to town with it.
Sinead, Jo and Kerry arrived and I made us all Dirty Mojitos. Kerry asked: "What's 'dirty' about them?" I said: "They've got Chlamydia." But they were dirty cause I'd made the sugar syrup with brown sugar. They checked out my life maps and said I should get them framed(I can't draw for toffee, but apparently my efforts have such "vibrancy" and "humour" as to make them endearing.) We met Mog at the restaurant and she'd handily ordered some sangria. We scoffed the delicious tapas and quaffed a few bottles of Campo Viejo Crianza. It was joyous.
I'm 29 and , surprise, surprise, it feels right.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
In the current climate ...
If I hear the phrase 'in the current climate' once more, I'm going to smack someone silly. How boring is this credit crunch shit? 24/7 ad nauseum. OK, it's a story, but it's not the only story. And it's not the end of the bloody world. All those folk with masses of money saved up and all it does is cause them stress. Octogenarians queuing at the banks to move their millions. Why are they still saving? They're queuing and complaining about the cold and they won't even part with some of their cash to buy themselves a coat. What the hell is going on?
I'd be the worst person to have working in a bank branch at the moment. With people lining up to take their money out, I wouldn't be able to resist doing my best Jimmy Stewart impersonation and saying: "Well, I don't have your money ... it's in Bill's house... and Ted's house." I'd think that was hilarious, but I'm not sure anyone else would find it funny.
My gran called me the other night and was asking if my job was safe. "Gran, you don't need to worry about me. I live two doors down from a sauna, I'll never struggle for work."
I was walking along the street today and The Scotsman headline board had the headline "Is Jenners feeling chill of Icelandic collapse?" Oh for fuck sake. Calm the parochialism. HBOS, RBS, Jenners... no doubt The Scotsman will relish in telling us the next victim of the credit crunch is Sean Connery, haggis or the See You Jimmy hat. Oh no, not our comedy hats. I say again, for fuck sake.
I went out to the cinema with 'date guy' last night. I still like him. The cinema was really busy but I spied a couple of seats. However, when I got along the row I noticed that a girl was sitting with her legs stretched out across the seats - effectively taking up three entire seats. I looked at her and smiled but she just gave me a 'challenging' look. I said "excuse me, can you move your feet please?", but still she just stared, daring me to do something. I love a dare, so I smiled and sat on her shins. She quickly changed her mind and withdrew her feet. Don't mess with me little girl. After the film,'Date guy' and I went for some drinks and he walked me home again.
I'd be the worst person to have working in a bank branch at the moment. With people lining up to take their money out, I wouldn't be able to resist doing my best Jimmy Stewart impersonation and saying: "Well, I don't have your money ... it's in Bill's house... and Ted's house." I'd think that was hilarious, but I'm not sure anyone else would find it funny.
My gran called me the other night and was asking if my job was safe. "Gran, you don't need to worry about me. I live two doors down from a sauna, I'll never struggle for work."
I was walking along the street today and The Scotsman headline board had the headline "Is Jenners feeling chill of Icelandic collapse?" Oh for fuck sake. Calm the parochialism. HBOS, RBS, Jenners... no doubt The Scotsman will relish in telling us the next victim of the credit crunch is Sean Connery, haggis or the See You Jimmy hat. Oh no, not our comedy hats. I say again, for fuck sake.
I went out to the cinema with 'date guy' last night. I still like him. The cinema was really busy but I spied a couple of seats. However, when I got along the row I noticed that a girl was sitting with her legs stretched out across the seats - effectively taking up three entire seats. I looked at her and smiled but she just gave me a 'challenging' look. I said "excuse me, can you move your feet please?", but still she just stared, daring me to do something. I love a dare, so I smiled and sat on her shins. She quickly changed her mind and withdrew her feet. Don't mess with me little girl. After the film,'Date guy' and I went for some drinks and he walked me home again.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
It's all looking good
After a week of wearing my specs and no eye make-up, I was ready for my laser eye surgery. I went for my pre-surgery appointment and the optometrist's assistant failed to capture the depth of my cornea. "You've got really big pupils. It makes things difficult." We might have to reschedule your surgery.
"I've already rescheduled it and I've taken a week off work to fit around the op and the subsequent check-ups."
"Well, if you go half an hour earlier for your appointment on Saturday, they can run the tests again."
"Good."
Saturday rolled around and my mum picked me up to take me through to Glasgow. My appointment was at 11am, but we got there at 09:15am. "Don't worry, we'll just take you just now." "Oh. Scary."
They ran the tests and everything was fine. I was shown into a waiting area. There was a comedy door. I say 'comedy' because it was like something from a James Bond film. It had a few signs on it saying: 'Danger. Laser surgery in operation.' 'Lasers beyond this point.' 'Flashing light indicates lasers in action.' And there was a flashing light. Absolutely hilarious. Instead of making me feel like I was going for some hi-tech op, it made me think of people running around with light sabers.
A camp guy in scrubs came to get me and took me through the comedy door. I met with the surgeon who gave the impression of being very competent. That made me feel better. The camp guy then took me through another door and told me to take a seat. It wasn't so much a room as the space between 2 doors. He ran through the instructions for taking me eye drops and anaesthetised my eyes. He told me to remove my jacket and scarf and said he'd take all these through to my mum, "except the scarf. I might steal the scarf. It's really pretty." I had to wear a stupid surgical cap and was taken through the other door to the operating 'theatre'.
It was kind of like a dentist's surgery. There were four people in the room with me: the surgeon (handy), the camp guy (a reassuring presence by this point, if only because it meant he wasn't trying on my scarf), a woman in scrubs (later deduced she was 'suction nurse') and another guy in scrubs who asked me my name and date of birth (let's call him 'question guy').
Camp guy asked me to get into the chair and put my head in the middle of the head rest. I duly obliged. The surgeon asked me to slide up a bit until I could see the flashing orange light. Done. This is what happened next:
He put some kind of clip device on to keep my right eye open. He put lots of drops in it. He put a metal looking thing in front of my eye and took it away again. He put a suction cup on my eye and asked 'suction nurse' for 'suction'. She did and said: "suction progressing well". I lost my vision for about five seconds. It came back. The surgeon said: "don't move" and my eye started going mental (this was because I knew the next part would be the slicer creating the corneal flap). This was over in milliseconds. The surgeon pulled the flap back and told me to keep watching the orange flashing light. A clicking sound started to go off (it was a bit like firing a toy gun) and I could smell my cornea burning. The surgeon then put the flap back down and kept putting drops in my eyes.
Then they did the same with the left eye. It was all over in 15 minutes. Camp guy asked me to sit up and took my hand. I could see. It was amazing! He took me through to the space between the doors and gave me my back of drops and my sexy night-time goggles. He took me through to see the surgeon again. The surgeon checked my eyes and said it was all "extremely successful". Good. A new person in scrubs came to collect me and walked/paraded me through the shop floor (look everyone, another successful laser eye patient, give us yer money). We got to the door leading into the waiting room where my mum was, but instead of going through it, she led me to another door about two metres along the same wall. We walked through this door. It was the comedy door, which I now knew to be utterly pointless and gimmicky. It leads to exactly the same places as the ordinary door. What a joke!
My mum told me that she'd been really worried about me. "Why? I was only away for about 15 minutes." "Well, the guy who came to get you in the first place came back out and spoke to the receptionist. Then he came over and asked if I was your mum. I said I was and he said 'don't worry. She's going to be fine.' I suddenly started wondering what had happened and why you wouldn't be fine. Then he went away and came back with your bag, jacket and scarf. I felt like I was being handed your possessions and that's all that was left of you. I thought you'd been completely lasered."
We got to the car and I got in and pulled down the visor so I could look at myself in the mirror. I gasped and said: "I'm beautiful!" My mum almost choked on her water. "What are you like lady!" My eyes were starting to get quite sore and it was difficult to keep them open so I dropped the seat flat, put on my shades and tied my scarf over the top of them. Every so often, I would come out with some nonsense like "I'm melting" (in the style of the wicked witch from The Wizard of Oz) or, when we stopped at traffic lights I would slowly sit up like Dracula in his coffin and turn to the other cars (with the specs and scarf combo). I never run out of ways to amuse myself.
When I got home, I put my drops in, popped some pills, slapped the goggles on and went for a nice long snooze.
Two days later I went for my post-op. My vision is better than 20/20 apparently (which I think, technically, means I can see your soul). My eyes definitely aren't as dry, sore and tired as they were with the contact lenses, so it's all looking good.
"I've already rescheduled it and I've taken a week off work to fit around the op and the subsequent check-ups."
"Well, if you go half an hour earlier for your appointment on Saturday, they can run the tests again."
"Good."
Saturday rolled around and my mum picked me up to take me through to Glasgow. My appointment was at 11am, but we got there at 09:15am. "Don't worry, we'll just take you just now." "Oh. Scary."
They ran the tests and everything was fine. I was shown into a waiting area. There was a comedy door. I say 'comedy' because it was like something from a James Bond film. It had a few signs on it saying: 'Danger. Laser surgery in operation.' 'Lasers beyond this point.' 'Flashing light indicates lasers in action.' And there was a flashing light. Absolutely hilarious. Instead of making me feel like I was going for some hi-tech op, it made me think of people running around with light sabers.
A camp guy in scrubs came to get me and took me through the comedy door. I met with the surgeon who gave the impression of being very competent. That made me feel better. The camp guy then took me through another door and told me to take a seat. It wasn't so much a room as the space between 2 doors. He ran through the instructions for taking me eye drops and anaesthetised my eyes. He told me to remove my jacket and scarf and said he'd take all these through to my mum, "except the scarf. I might steal the scarf. It's really pretty." I had to wear a stupid surgical cap and was taken through the other door to the operating 'theatre'.
It was kind of like a dentist's surgery. There were four people in the room with me: the surgeon (handy), the camp guy (a reassuring presence by this point, if only because it meant he wasn't trying on my scarf), a woman in scrubs (later deduced she was 'suction nurse') and another guy in scrubs who asked me my name and date of birth (let's call him 'question guy').
Camp guy asked me to get into the chair and put my head in the middle of the head rest. I duly obliged. The surgeon asked me to slide up a bit until I could see the flashing orange light. Done. This is what happened next:
He put some kind of clip device on to keep my right eye open. He put lots of drops in it. He put a metal looking thing in front of my eye and took it away again. He put a suction cup on my eye and asked 'suction nurse' for 'suction'. She did and said: "suction progressing well". I lost my vision for about five seconds. It came back. The surgeon said: "don't move" and my eye started going mental (this was because I knew the next part would be the slicer creating the corneal flap). This was over in milliseconds. The surgeon pulled the flap back and told me to keep watching the orange flashing light. A clicking sound started to go off (it was a bit like firing a toy gun) and I could smell my cornea burning. The surgeon then put the flap back down and kept putting drops in my eyes.
Then they did the same with the left eye. It was all over in 15 minutes. Camp guy asked me to sit up and took my hand. I could see. It was amazing! He took me through to the space between the doors and gave me my back of drops and my sexy night-time goggles. He took me through to see the surgeon again. The surgeon checked my eyes and said it was all "extremely successful". Good. A new person in scrubs came to collect me and walked/paraded me through the shop floor (look everyone, another successful laser eye patient, give us yer money). We got to the door leading into the waiting room where my mum was, but instead of going through it, she led me to another door about two metres along the same wall. We walked through this door. It was the comedy door, which I now knew to be utterly pointless and gimmicky. It leads to exactly the same places as the ordinary door. What a joke!
My mum told me that she'd been really worried about me. "Why? I was only away for about 15 minutes." "Well, the guy who came to get you in the first place came back out and spoke to the receptionist. Then he came over and asked if I was your mum. I said I was and he said 'don't worry. She's going to be fine.' I suddenly started wondering what had happened and why you wouldn't be fine. Then he went away and came back with your bag, jacket and scarf. I felt like I was being handed your possessions and that's all that was left of you. I thought you'd been completely lasered."
We got to the car and I got in and pulled down the visor so I could look at myself in the mirror. I gasped and said: "I'm beautiful!" My mum almost choked on her water. "What are you like lady!" My eyes were starting to get quite sore and it was difficult to keep them open so I dropped the seat flat, put on my shades and tied my scarf over the top of them. Every so often, I would come out with some nonsense like "I'm melting" (in the style of the wicked witch from The Wizard of Oz) or, when we stopped at traffic lights I would slowly sit up like Dracula in his coffin and turn to the other cars (with the specs and scarf combo). I never run out of ways to amuse myself.
When I got home, I put my drops in, popped some pills, slapped the goggles on and went for a nice long snooze.
Two days later I went for my post-op. My vision is better than 20/20 apparently (which I think, technically, means I can see your soul). My eyes definitely aren't as dry, sore and tired as they were with the contact lenses, so it's all looking good.
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
Red and dangerous
The date was good. He phoned me two hours before we were due to meet for dinner. "I bet you're getting ready." "No I'm not. I'm quite chilled about these things. Probably won't start getting ready for another hour yet." "Uh huh."
Of course I was getting ready. I had an active charcoal face mask on as we were speaking.
"Are you nervous?" I decided to be honest. "A little bit." "Why?" "Well, I'm worried my mouth won't work." "Lisa, from what I've seen so far, that's not even a remote possibility." The cheek of him. I liked it. I decided to be more honest. "Hey, I was also thinking how funny it would be if I turned up for dinner dressed as a man from the 1920s. You know, with a tux, slicked back hair and a monocle." "hahaha. Now that would be hilarious." Oooh. I like him even more.
We had tapas and some fab red wine. My mouth worked fine. I hadn't noticed before, but he has lovely teeth. I like nice teeth. After dinner, we went to Bramble and laid down on this cushioned bed. He introduced me to a special kind of gin. I noticed he had nice shoes. We stayed out until 2am. He walked me home. I said: "I would invite you in, but I'm not a whore". He laughed and said: "We should definitely do this again."
The 10K was good. I'd been struggling to sleep on account of it all week and then Saturday morning arrived. I packed my bag and drove over to Fife. Joleen picked me up and we headed to Inverness. We checked into the hotel and headed into town for some dinner - preferably a pasta overload.
Inverness, however, was full to bursting with runners - and they all wanted a pasta overload. Jo and I walked round the town 3 times trying to find an Italian place that had space. We asked a man for directions and he was very keen to take us there himself - but that was probably because Jo tripped when she went over to speak to him and almost head-butted him in the 'nads. We tried everywhere else, before giving up and joining the queue at Bella Italia.
I didn't sleep at all that night. I was ridiculously nervous about the race, which is nuts. I wasn't running for anybody but myself. I wasn't even being sponsored. I didn't have to do it. At 6am my alarm went off.
Jo and the others were all doing the 5K and set off for the start about 2 hours before I was due to leave. At 0930, I arrived at the Royal Academy and we all had to follow these pipers about a kilometre to the start point. It was totally surreal. I kept thinking 'people are weird and they do weird things'. The race started in the middle of a new build housing scheme, which must have been joyous for those living there. It took about two minutes to reach the starting line after the gun had gone. As I crossed the line, I started my watch and my Ipod. I was off.
The first part of the race was through the woods and it was very narrow. I had to weave in and out, running through ditches to get passed the other, slower, runners. By 4K, we were on the road. At 5K I checked my watch - 28 minutes. Pretty good. I suddenly felt comfortable. I knew I was going to make it. I just wanted to try and do it in under an hour. But I know nothing about pace. And soon after, I noticed that I was no longer passing anyone. They were all passing me. Well, apart from the ones who were stopping - right in front of me, arrgghh!
About 7KMTRS in, I was running alongside two girls in wedding dresses. They clearly weren't taking this seriously so I didn't want to be beaten by them. Then I remembered that I was dressed as a reject from FAME (red training bib emblazoned with my surname, and a red headband) and that people probably thought I was joking around too.
At 9KMTRS I got both excited and relieved. I checked my watch - 54 mins. I might just make it.
But, I swear, that last kilometre went on forever. I didn't think it was ever going to end. My thighs and my ass were really sore. And it was uphill. I got into the stadium and onto the track. I could see the finish line. Thank fuck. Then, hilariously (but somewhat annoyingly given that I struggled so much in that last kilometre) I sprinted like a mad woman and overtook pretty much everyone who was on the track. I didn't know I could get my legs that high. I crossed the line - 1:03. Not my target, but not too bad given that 8 weeks previously I barely made it from the car park to the swan pond.
Jo had snapped some pics of me on the track. Some of the funniest things I have ever seen. I look like a cross between Carl Lewis (all spread-fingered and mecahnical) and Rambo (red and dangerous). Oh yeah, and not in any way attractive.
So, next time, I will do it in under an hour.
Of course I was getting ready. I had an active charcoal face mask on as we were speaking.
"Are you nervous?" I decided to be honest. "A little bit." "Why?" "Well, I'm worried my mouth won't work." "Lisa, from what I've seen so far, that's not even a remote possibility." The cheek of him. I liked it. I decided to be more honest. "Hey, I was also thinking how funny it would be if I turned up for dinner dressed as a man from the 1920s. You know, with a tux, slicked back hair and a monocle." "hahaha. Now that would be hilarious." Oooh. I like him even more.
We had tapas and some fab red wine. My mouth worked fine. I hadn't noticed before, but he has lovely teeth. I like nice teeth. After dinner, we went to Bramble and laid down on this cushioned bed. He introduced me to a special kind of gin. I noticed he had nice shoes. We stayed out until 2am. He walked me home. I said: "I would invite you in, but I'm not a whore". He laughed and said: "We should definitely do this again."
The 10K was good. I'd been struggling to sleep on account of it all week and then Saturday morning arrived. I packed my bag and drove over to Fife. Joleen picked me up and we headed to Inverness. We checked into the hotel and headed into town for some dinner - preferably a pasta overload.
Inverness, however, was full to bursting with runners - and they all wanted a pasta overload. Jo and I walked round the town 3 times trying to find an Italian place that had space. We asked a man for directions and he was very keen to take us there himself - but that was probably because Jo tripped when she went over to speak to him and almost head-butted him in the 'nads. We tried everywhere else, before giving up and joining the queue at Bella Italia.
I didn't sleep at all that night. I was ridiculously nervous about the race, which is nuts. I wasn't running for anybody but myself. I wasn't even being sponsored. I didn't have to do it. At 6am my alarm went off.
Jo and the others were all doing the 5K and set off for the start about 2 hours before I was due to leave. At 0930, I arrived at the Royal Academy and we all had to follow these pipers about a kilometre to the start point. It was totally surreal. I kept thinking 'people are weird and they do weird things'. The race started in the middle of a new build housing scheme, which must have been joyous for those living there. It took about two minutes to reach the starting line after the gun had gone. As I crossed the line, I started my watch and my Ipod. I was off.
The first part of the race was through the woods and it was very narrow. I had to weave in and out, running through ditches to get passed the other, slower, runners. By 4K, we were on the road. At 5K I checked my watch - 28 minutes. Pretty good. I suddenly felt comfortable. I knew I was going to make it. I just wanted to try and do it in under an hour. But I know nothing about pace. And soon after, I noticed that I was no longer passing anyone. They were all passing me. Well, apart from the ones who were stopping - right in front of me, arrgghh!
About 7KMTRS in, I was running alongside two girls in wedding dresses. They clearly weren't taking this seriously so I didn't want to be beaten by them. Then I remembered that I was dressed as a reject from FAME (red training bib emblazoned with my surname, and a red headband) and that people probably thought I was joking around too.
At 9KMTRS I got both excited and relieved. I checked my watch - 54 mins. I might just make it.
But, I swear, that last kilometre went on forever. I didn't think it was ever going to end. My thighs and my ass were really sore. And it was uphill. I got into the stadium and onto the track. I could see the finish line. Thank fuck. Then, hilariously (but somewhat annoyingly given that I struggled so much in that last kilometre) I sprinted like a mad woman and overtook pretty much everyone who was on the track. I didn't know I could get my legs that high. I crossed the line - 1:03. Not my target, but not too bad given that 8 weeks previously I barely made it from the car park to the swan pond.
Jo had snapped some pics of me on the track. Some of the funniest things I have ever seen. I look like a cross between Carl Lewis (all spread-fingered and mecahnical) and Rambo (red and dangerous). Oh yeah, and not in any way attractive.
So, next time, I will do it in under an hour.
Thursday, October 02, 2008
What's that?
Leanne and Ella (who is almost three. Now that's scary as she was mere weeks old when this blog first started) came round to my place for lunch yesterday. Despite my general incompetence with children, it was actually really good. Ella didn't want to go!! What a result.
She's at a brilliant stage where she's really inquisitive, listens in on your conversations then asks what all the words she doesn't understand mean. Brilliant fun - for me (as the non-parent) anyway. I enjoyed trying to throw in as many big words as possible: "Mummy, what's supposition? negotiate? lacklustre? existentialism?"
Ella was also asking me why I had or didn't have certain things. "Lisa, why do you have a that car up there?" (I have a model red Dodge Viper that I got for my 17th birthday because it was my dream car. I had been secretly hoping for the keys to a Dodge Viper, alas ...) "it's an aspirational item Ella." "Mummy, what's aspirational?" "Mummy, does Lisa play with that car?" "Sometimes Ella, when I'm really lonely I bring it down and drive it around the floor." "Mummy, Lisa talks rubbish."
"Lisa, what's in this cupboard?" "Oh, that's where I keep all my ex-husbands." "Mummy, what's an ex-husband?" "Lisa!"
The best bit though, was something that I didn't instigate at all. Ella decided to start asking Leanne about the imminent arrival of her baby brother or sister. "But how will my baby get out mummy?" (Brilliant.) Leanne is trying not to make-up nonsense stories for Ella so this was going to be fun. "Well, there's a hole that the baby can come out." (Nice work Leanne.) "But where is the hole?" (hahahahaha.) "Well, it's underneath mummy's tummy." (good recovery.) "Can I see the hole please mummy?" (Argh! Unexpected return.) "No." (Sometimes no other answer will do.)
She's at a brilliant stage where she's really inquisitive, listens in on your conversations then asks what all the words she doesn't understand mean. Brilliant fun - for me (as the non-parent) anyway. I enjoyed trying to throw in as many big words as possible: "Mummy, what's supposition? negotiate? lacklustre? existentialism?"
Ella was also asking me why I had or didn't have certain things. "Lisa, why do you have a that car up there?" (I have a model red Dodge Viper that I got for my 17th birthday because it was my dream car. I had been secretly hoping for the keys to a Dodge Viper, alas ...) "it's an aspirational item Ella." "Mummy, what's aspirational?" "Mummy, does Lisa play with that car?" "Sometimes Ella, when I'm really lonely I bring it down and drive it around the floor." "Mummy, Lisa talks rubbish."
"Lisa, what's in this cupboard?" "Oh, that's where I keep all my ex-husbands." "Mummy, what's an ex-husband?" "Lisa!"
The best bit though, was something that I didn't instigate at all. Ella decided to start asking Leanne about the imminent arrival of her baby brother or sister. "But how will my baby get out mummy?" (Brilliant.) Leanne is trying not to make-up nonsense stories for Ella so this was going to be fun. "Well, there's a hole that the baby can come out." (Nice work Leanne.) "But where is the hole?" (hahahahaha.) "Well, it's underneath mummy's tummy." (good recovery.) "Can I see the hole please mummy?" (Argh! Unexpected return.) "No." (Sometimes no other answer will do.)
Monday, September 29, 2008
Staying warm this winter
It's very cold in the flat tonight but I'm refusing to put on the fire or the radiators because it's still only September. Also, if I get into the habit of putting that fire on now, it'll be on all the time and, given the impending financial apocalypse, I really don't need my gas meter to start ringing up numbers with the speed and ferocity of an ambitious tele-sales executive.
Speaking of financial doom, I went out for cocktails on Friday night at The Scotsman and on Saturday night at Harvey Nick's. Lots of people were doing the same; you wouldn't think there was a credit crunch. It reminded me vaguely of those paintings depicting the Gilded Age of American excess just before the Great Depression kicked in. Uh-oh.
I have a date this week with someone I actually feel quite excited about. (I'm not looking for a relationship but since I'm not putting the fire on, I could really do with something to keep me warm.) I know, who'd have thought it? The last time I felt like this about someone I was 14, so it's a lot of fun. Even if it comes to nothing, it's good to know that I can still get excited. I was beginning to wonder. (p.s. 'Dave' and I have gone back to being 'just friends'. He accepted it with good grace and humour and said: "Yeah, you're much cooler when you're not going out with you." 'Dave', on the other hand, was exactly as cool as when he wasn't going out with me. I feel he has a lot to learn about women and I need to be more honest with myself.)
A colleague from work was telling me about a guy she's just started dating. He sounds hot and she's pretty excited. All excellent news. However, she was telling me about a dinner he'd cooked the night before. He made lobster. She was suspicious that he hadn't made it himself as cooking is 'neither a great interest nor skill' for him. "What does it matter whether he caught the lobster with his teeth or whether he scooped it out of a can, it's the thought that counts." "Oh I know, and it was really good. I just wish he'd be upfront if he didn't make it himself."
"Did you have a good night though?"
"Yeah, it was great. A really nice evening."
"Excellent."
"Except..."
"What?"
"Well, it was getting quite late so Steve offered to give me a lift home. And I said: 'Well, maybe I'll just stay'. He looked a bit startled and said: 'Erm... the thing is ... my mum's here'. I said: 'What? You're kidding!' I mean, I hadn't seen hide nor hair of his mum all night. 'Where is she?' 'Erm ... she's through in one of the bedrooms. She's visiting this weekend, but she didn't want to get in the way.' 'Right, well I'm not staying if your mum's here.' 'Yeah, I'll give you a lift.' So he gave me a lift home. I still don't think he cooked that lobster himself though. I wish he'd just say."
"Oh my God. Who cares about the fucking lobster? You're dating Norman Bates."
In other news:
1)I've got my race number and champion chip through for Sunday's big race. Very excited and nervous.
2)I received a text from Careth to say she and Mark are "expecting a 'bundle of joy' in March '09". Jen said she felt the '09 part was unnecessary unless Careth has turned into an elephant since we saw her last. I clearly missed the point as I thought their insurance policy was paying out.
3)Leanne is due to deliver baby number two any day now.
4)Sinead is loved-up and she and Saul are acting like Jonathan and Jennifer Hart. I don't just mean they're being all romantic and cosy, they're actually undertaking investigative assignments in and around Kirkcaldy.
5)My ex is getting married, again, (the fool) and wants to chat through some 'unresolved stuff' from our spectacularly short-lived attempt. I'm not doing it."
I'll let you know how I get on in the big race.
Speaking of financial doom, I went out for cocktails on Friday night at The Scotsman and on Saturday night at Harvey Nick's. Lots of people were doing the same; you wouldn't think there was a credit crunch. It reminded me vaguely of those paintings depicting the Gilded Age of American excess just before the Great Depression kicked in. Uh-oh.
I have a date this week with someone I actually feel quite excited about. (I'm not looking for a relationship but since I'm not putting the fire on, I could really do with something to keep me warm.) I know, who'd have thought it? The last time I felt like this about someone I was 14, so it's a lot of fun. Even if it comes to nothing, it's good to know that I can still get excited. I was beginning to wonder. (p.s. 'Dave' and I have gone back to being 'just friends'. He accepted it with good grace and humour and said: "Yeah, you're much cooler when you're not going out with you." 'Dave', on the other hand, was exactly as cool as when he wasn't going out with me. I feel he has a lot to learn about women and I need to be more honest with myself.)
A colleague from work was telling me about a guy she's just started dating. He sounds hot and she's pretty excited. All excellent news. However, she was telling me about a dinner he'd cooked the night before. He made lobster. She was suspicious that he hadn't made it himself as cooking is 'neither a great interest nor skill' for him. "What does it matter whether he caught the lobster with his teeth or whether he scooped it out of a can, it's the thought that counts." "Oh I know, and it was really good. I just wish he'd be upfront if he didn't make it himself."
"Did you have a good night though?"
"Yeah, it was great. A really nice evening."
"Excellent."
"Except..."
"What?"
"Well, it was getting quite late so Steve offered to give me a lift home. And I said: 'Well, maybe I'll just stay'. He looked a bit startled and said: 'Erm... the thing is ... my mum's here'. I said: 'What? You're kidding!' I mean, I hadn't seen hide nor hair of his mum all night. 'Where is she?' 'Erm ... she's through in one of the bedrooms. She's visiting this weekend, but she didn't want to get in the way.' 'Right, well I'm not staying if your mum's here.' 'Yeah, I'll give you a lift.' So he gave me a lift home. I still don't think he cooked that lobster himself though. I wish he'd just say."
"Oh my God. Who cares about the fucking lobster? You're dating Norman Bates."
In other news:
1)I've got my race number and champion chip through for Sunday's big race. Very excited and nervous.
2)I received a text from Careth to say she and Mark are "expecting a 'bundle of joy' in March '09". Jen said she felt the '09 part was unnecessary unless Careth has turned into an elephant since we saw her last. I clearly missed the point as I thought their insurance policy was paying out.
3)Leanne is due to deliver baby number two any day now.
4)Sinead is loved-up and she and Saul are acting like Jonathan and Jennifer Hart. I don't just mean they're being all romantic and cosy, they're actually undertaking investigative assignments in and around Kirkcaldy.
5)My ex is getting married, again, (the fool) and wants to chat through some 'unresolved stuff' from our spectacularly short-lived attempt. I'm not doing it."
I'll let you know how I get on in the big race.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
So you run and you run to catch up with the sun
Sunday morning dawned and I awoke - thanks to the irritating people upstairs. Thankfully, they weren't having sex this time but they were jumping around and giggling - a lot. It's nice that they're so happy, but I do wish they'd try to keep it down a bit.
Anyway, 0730 and my legs feel a lot better than they did yesterday. I think the 5k on Saturday evening limbered them up a bit. A slice of toast with crunchy peanut butter and catching up with Strictly Come Dancing on IPlayer. I decide that Gary Rhodes looks like a raw prawn - all grey and hunched. Unpleasant.
At 9am I decide to set off on my 5.2 mile run. I look at the clock and think I'll have 5 miles done within the hour - no excuses. If I'm on pace for my desired 10K time, I should be back midway through 'That's Entertainment' by The Jam.
The first mile is always the toughest, but after that I always seem to settle into it. I run up to London Road via Rossie Place and then back along to the top of Easter Road. My route takes me down past Leith Links and along to Ocean Terminal and back. It's a beautiful morning for a run and I'm particularly enjoying it as I run alongside the water at the Scottish Executive building.
Running up Easter Road after having already clocked up 4.5 miles is a tough one, but I've got A Town Like Malice blasting in my ears and I feel pretty cool. I feel even cooler when I notice a wee old lady hanging out her front door looking for someone to take her rubbish bag and put it into the bin. I duly oblige without stopping, scooping it out of her hands, running over to the bin and depositing it inside. I turn around and give her a wave, my civic pride swelling in my chest - well, that and my pumped-up heart and lungs.
Unfortunately, That's Entertainment finishes as I turn into my street. I'm off the pace. Still, 5 miles in 53 minutes isn't too bad for my 6th week faking it as a runner. Go me!
I climb the stairs, kick off my trainers, run my face under the tap and drink half a litre of water. My top is soaking and I look a state, so I have a cold shower and put a fresh t-shirt on. Then I put 'Dark Side of the Moon' on and lie in the middle of the living room floor watching the clouds roll by.
I'm thinking about the first time I discovered this album, which isn't the same as the first time I heard it. I 'discovered' it in Orlando of all places. I was lying on a sun lounger by the pool in May of 2003. It was a scorcher with a perfectly clear blue sky. I just listened to the music and stared up at the sky. Sheer and utter bliss.
The time is gone, the song is over,
Thought I'd something more to say.
Anyway, 0730 and my legs feel a lot better than they did yesterday. I think the 5k on Saturday evening limbered them up a bit. A slice of toast with crunchy peanut butter and catching up with Strictly Come Dancing on IPlayer. I decide that Gary Rhodes looks like a raw prawn - all grey and hunched. Unpleasant.
At 9am I decide to set off on my 5.2 mile run. I look at the clock and think I'll have 5 miles done within the hour - no excuses. If I'm on pace for my desired 10K time, I should be back midway through 'That's Entertainment' by The Jam.
The first mile is always the toughest, but after that I always seem to settle into it. I run up to London Road via Rossie Place and then back along to the top of Easter Road. My route takes me down past Leith Links and along to Ocean Terminal and back. It's a beautiful morning for a run and I'm particularly enjoying it as I run alongside the water at the Scottish Executive building.
Running up Easter Road after having already clocked up 4.5 miles is a tough one, but I've got A Town Like Malice blasting in my ears and I feel pretty cool. I feel even cooler when I notice a wee old lady hanging out her front door looking for someone to take her rubbish bag and put it into the bin. I duly oblige without stopping, scooping it out of her hands, running over to the bin and depositing it inside. I turn around and give her a wave, my civic pride swelling in my chest - well, that and my pumped-up heart and lungs.
Unfortunately, That's Entertainment finishes as I turn into my street. I'm off the pace. Still, 5 miles in 53 minutes isn't too bad for my 6th week faking it as a runner. Go me!
I climb the stairs, kick off my trainers, run my face under the tap and drink half a litre of water. My top is soaking and I look a state, so I have a cold shower and put a fresh t-shirt on. Then I put 'Dark Side of the Moon' on and lie in the middle of the living room floor watching the clouds roll by.
I'm thinking about the first time I discovered this album, which isn't the same as the first time I heard it. I 'discovered' it in Orlando of all places. I was lying on a sun lounger by the pool in May of 2003. It was a scorcher with a perfectly clear blue sky. I just listened to the music and stared up at the sky. Sheer and utter bliss.
The time is gone, the song is over,
Thought I'd something more to say.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Mince pies update
So I realised that I would have to change the date of my laser eye surgery after all. Apparently, you're not supposed to do any excercise for a week after it and running is a big no-no. "You could dislodge the corneal flap". "Yeah, I probably don't want to be doing that, let's just reschedule."
After all my hard work with 'the running', there was no way I was going to cancel my 10K. So now the 10K is on the 5th October and the laser eye surgery is on the 11th and I have about 3 weeks off work (incidentally, the magazine should be going to the printers next week - finally) and everything is grand. Except that I have stress excema on my eyelids and am wearing sudocrem for eyeshadow. Good look!
As I was paying for my eye surgery, the woman asked where I worked. I told her and she said: "You're entitled to a discount." I thought, "discounts are good, maybe I'll be £50 better off".
More like £500!!!
How fantastic is that news? I'm elated.
After all my hard work with 'the running', there was no way I was going to cancel my 10K. So now the 10K is on the 5th October and the laser eye surgery is on the 11th and I have about 3 weeks off work (incidentally, the magazine should be going to the printers next week - finally) and everything is grand. Except that I have stress excema on my eyelids and am wearing sudocrem for eyeshadow. Good look!
As I was paying for my eye surgery, the woman asked where I worked. I told her and she said: "You're entitled to a discount." I thought, "discounts are good, maybe I'll be £50 better off".
More like £500!!!
How fantastic is that news? I'm elated.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
My urban jungle
I told you about my efforts with 'the running' a few weeks back. Well, it continues. I've been incredibly self-motivated (well, spending half your mortgage payment on running gear helps with the motivation) and have stuck to my MapMyRun training plan.
Two weeks ago, Joleen sent me an email at work asking if I fancied going to Inverness to do a 5K with her and some of her friends from work on October 5th. "Yeah, I'd be up for that." Jo sent me the link and I looked over all the info. But when it came to it, I just couldn't sign myself up. Inverness? I'm not going all that way just to pick up a chicken. So I (foolishly) signed myself up for the 10K and immediately felt nauseous.
Having only 5 weeks to train - and having only started running 3 weeks ago - I'm not feeling optimistic. I don't even know if I can run for an hour yet, never mind trying to complete 10K in that time. Needless to say, the training plan has been ramped up a bit. 3.5K on alternate weeknights with a longer run on the Sunday.
It's a bit of an urban jungle where I live. Last week, I ran round the corner and had to hurdle 2 televisions. On another occasion - but on the same street - I was attacked by a West Highland terrier. I was just running along the street, as usual, and there were two women standing chatting. I noticed that one of the women had a Westie on a lead and another standing beside her without a lead. As I got closer, I could see the unleashed Westie barking at me (I couldn't hear because I had the 'pod on - Great DJ by the Ting Tings). Then it started running towards me. When it reached me, it started head-butting my legs like it was trying to trip me up. It was totally surreal.
There was one great moment though, as I was running downhill with 'All these things that I've done' propelling me to greatness, a big fat guy came out of a shop. He was wearing a grey hoodie and - get this - emblazoned across the front of it was my surname! How cool is that? Totally uncool is the fact that I started grinning like an idiot and 'the commentator' started speaking inside my head. 'The crowds have come out to cheer her on. They're wearing her name on their clothing. It's a great atmosphere, with all this support she can't fail.' I'm such a saddo.
Three Sundays ago was my first attempt at 5K. I managed it in 29 minutes, which wasn't bad at all. Although, finishing by running up Easter Road was not a particularly good idea.
On the Wednesday, I went out on my 3.5K and was gutted to have to stop at 3K. It wasn't much more to run but I just couldn't do it. I got into the flat and felt really dizzy then I remembered that I'd donated a pint of blood to the NHS that day and perhaps running wasn't very sensible. On Friday, it was a miserable night (made more so by the delay on the magazine and the comments from the Chief Exec that my writing was 'pish') so I stayed in and happily made my way through a bottle of Campo Viejo Reserva. That meant I had to make up for it on the Saturday. I headed out at 10am and finished the route in a decent time (despite being stopped by a woman looking for Albion Place and Lochend Road). However, when I got into the flat - I immediately felt awful. I managed to get my trainers and socks off, and splash my face with cold water before throwing up. I got really bad stomach cramps and continued to vomit before curling myself into a ball on the bathroom floor racked by cold sweats. I drank plenty of water, popped some paracetamol and lay down on the bed. I woke up half an hour later and felt great. How very bizarre.
For the last two Sundays I've managed 6.5K and then 7.5K. Tomorrow it's 8.5K. My 5K route that I do now feels like a walk in the park. Last Saturday, I walked out my front door just before 9am and was ready to set off. I noticed a couple crossing the road and as I got closer I recognised the woman as someone I used to work with. She was getting a kiss from the guy and was clearly wearing Friday night's dress and hair. When I knew her, she was married and this wasn't her husband. I thought: "Ah, please don't turn around and see me cause you'll be embarrassed." Then I remembered that I was the one wearing Lycra. "Ah!" I bolted and managed to set my quickest time yet - 26 minutes.
Two weeks ago, Joleen sent me an email at work asking if I fancied going to Inverness to do a 5K with her and some of her friends from work on October 5th. "Yeah, I'd be up for that." Jo sent me the link and I looked over all the info. But when it came to it, I just couldn't sign myself up. Inverness? I'm not going all that way just to pick up a chicken. So I (foolishly) signed myself up for the 10K and immediately felt nauseous.
Having only 5 weeks to train - and having only started running 3 weeks ago - I'm not feeling optimistic. I don't even know if I can run for an hour yet, never mind trying to complete 10K in that time. Needless to say, the training plan has been ramped up a bit. 3.5K on alternate weeknights with a longer run on the Sunday.
It's a bit of an urban jungle where I live. Last week, I ran round the corner and had to hurdle 2 televisions. On another occasion - but on the same street - I was attacked by a West Highland terrier. I was just running along the street, as usual, and there were two women standing chatting. I noticed that one of the women had a Westie on a lead and another standing beside her without a lead. As I got closer, I could see the unleashed Westie barking at me (I couldn't hear because I had the 'pod on - Great DJ by the Ting Tings). Then it started running towards me. When it reached me, it started head-butting my legs like it was trying to trip me up. It was totally surreal.
There was one great moment though, as I was running downhill with 'All these things that I've done' propelling me to greatness, a big fat guy came out of a shop. He was wearing a grey hoodie and - get this - emblazoned across the front of it was my surname! How cool is that? Totally uncool is the fact that I started grinning like an idiot and 'the commentator' started speaking inside my head. 'The crowds have come out to cheer her on. They're wearing her name on their clothing. It's a great atmosphere, with all this support she can't fail.' I'm such a saddo.
Three Sundays ago was my first attempt at 5K. I managed it in 29 minutes, which wasn't bad at all. Although, finishing by running up Easter Road was not a particularly good idea.
On the Wednesday, I went out on my 3.5K and was gutted to have to stop at 3K. It wasn't much more to run but I just couldn't do it. I got into the flat and felt really dizzy then I remembered that I'd donated a pint of blood to the NHS that day and perhaps running wasn't very sensible. On Friday, it was a miserable night (made more so by the delay on the magazine and the comments from the Chief Exec that my writing was 'pish') so I stayed in and happily made my way through a bottle of Campo Viejo Reserva. That meant I had to make up for it on the Saturday. I headed out at 10am and finished the route in a decent time (despite being stopped by a woman looking for Albion Place and Lochend Road). However, when I got into the flat - I immediately felt awful. I managed to get my trainers and socks off, and splash my face with cold water before throwing up. I got really bad stomach cramps and continued to vomit before curling myself into a ball on the bathroom floor racked by cold sweats. I drank plenty of water, popped some paracetamol and lay down on the bed. I woke up half an hour later and felt great. How very bizarre.
For the last two Sundays I've managed 6.5K and then 7.5K. Tomorrow it's 8.5K. My 5K route that I do now feels like a walk in the park. Last Saturday, I walked out my front door just before 9am and was ready to set off. I noticed a couple crossing the road and as I got closer I recognised the woman as someone I used to work with. She was getting a kiss from the guy and was clearly wearing Friday night's dress and hair. When I knew her, she was married and this wasn't her husband. I thought: "Ah, please don't turn around and see me cause you'll be embarrassed." Then I remembered that I was the one wearing Lycra. "Ah!" I bolted and managed to set my quickest time yet - 26 minutes.
Saturday, September 06, 2008
I beg to differ
Well ... it had to happen sooner or later and I'm surprised (and glad) it's taken as long as eight months. Work, over the last three weeks, has been turgid, frustrating, exasperating - and I feel like I've been fighting with everyone.
Issue 3 (henceforth to be known as 'the difficult third issue') was running smoothly. Then something that was supposed to happen on the 1st September (when the magazine was originally supposed to be out) was postponed until 5th October, which meant I couldn't mention it in the mag and had to find a new feature for two of the editions and another news story for the other two editions - this was the day before it was due to go to print. I managed it and breathed a sigh of relief.
Then, when all the copies of the magazine had been printed, dried and almost stitched, I received a phone call. "Lisa, what would be the cost/time implications of binning the magazine? We need to add a new double-page feature." I knew at that moment all bets were off and we'd be lucky to get a magazine out before the middle of October.
I was right. Twice this week, the head of the company, has read the article and given the constructive feedback that it is "pish". Meanwhile, I'm fielding calls from around the world from people demanding to know when the magazine will be out and why it is delayed. The first question, I can't answer and the second one I'm not allowed to answer.
The delayed magazine has implications for a massive world-wide project being done by another department, so they call me about 30 times a day asking for an update. I kept telling them I didn't have one, but when I did they'd be the first to know. But, when the second 'pish' comment came through yesterday I was told I wasn't allowed to tell them we still hadn't found a resolution. Brilliant.
Then, the cherry on the top of my cake, completely out of left-field one of my colleagues asked me if 'Dave' was 'the one'. I laughed and told her I didn't subscribe to the concept of 'the one'. She said: "Do you want him to father your children?" I said: "God no, I don't want anyone to do that." And she said: "Oh you will."
I was completely shocked. I knew she wasn't meaning to be horrible or anything so I didn't stab her with my fork. Instead, I just laughed and said: "Well maybe I will, and maybe I won't, but I'm not going to go around making decisions based on how I might or might not feel in future. Maybe I won't be looking after grandchildren, maybe I'll be scuba diving somewhere exotic, maybe I'll be dictating best-selling novels - maybe I'll be dictating them to my grandchildren. Who knows?"
Could you imagine how crap your life would be if you made all your decisions based on how you think you might feel when you're retired? I'd be miserable because I'd be pumping all my money into a pension, which would mean I'd look like shit, never go on holiday, never go out for dinner or drinks, and never get my red sports-car. I might even have married someone I didn't fancy just because they were sensible and dependable and put all their money in a pension too. I might have had children. I might spend my days fretting about the fact that I might get to retiring and wonder what my life's all been about - because it certainly wasn't about me.
Lisa, your writing is pish and your life is pitiful. Ha, ha, ha - I beg to differ.
Issue 3 (henceforth to be known as 'the difficult third issue') was running smoothly. Then something that was supposed to happen on the 1st September (when the magazine was originally supposed to be out) was postponed until 5th October, which meant I couldn't mention it in the mag and had to find a new feature for two of the editions and another news story for the other two editions - this was the day before it was due to go to print. I managed it and breathed a sigh of relief.
Then, when all the copies of the magazine had been printed, dried and almost stitched, I received a phone call. "Lisa, what would be the cost/time implications of binning the magazine? We need to add a new double-page feature." I knew at that moment all bets were off and we'd be lucky to get a magazine out before the middle of October.
I was right. Twice this week, the head of the company, has read the article and given the constructive feedback that it is "pish". Meanwhile, I'm fielding calls from around the world from people demanding to know when the magazine will be out and why it is delayed. The first question, I can't answer and the second one I'm not allowed to answer.
The delayed magazine has implications for a massive world-wide project being done by another department, so they call me about 30 times a day asking for an update. I kept telling them I didn't have one, but when I did they'd be the first to know. But, when the second 'pish' comment came through yesterday I was told I wasn't allowed to tell them we still hadn't found a resolution. Brilliant.
Then, the cherry on the top of my cake, completely out of left-field one of my colleagues asked me if 'Dave' was 'the one'. I laughed and told her I didn't subscribe to the concept of 'the one'. She said: "Do you want him to father your children?" I said: "God no, I don't want anyone to do that." And she said: "Oh you will."
I was completely shocked. I knew she wasn't meaning to be horrible or anything so I didn't stab her with my fork. Instead, I just laughed and said: "Well maybe I will, and maybe I won't, but I'm not going to go around making decisions based on how I might or might not feel in future. Maybe I won't be looking after grandchildren, maybe I'll be scuba diving somewhere exotic, maybe I'll be dictating best-selling novels - maybe I'll be dictating them to my grandchildren. Who knows?"
Could you imagine how crap your life would be if you made all your decisions based on how you think you might feel when you're retired? I'd be miserable because I'd be pumping all my money into a pension, which would mean I'd look like shit, never go on holiday, never go out for dinner or drinks, and never get my red sports-car. I might even have married someone I didn't fancy just because they were sensible and dependable and put all their money in a pension too. I might have had children. I might spend my days fretting about the fact that I might get to retiring and wonder what my life's all been about - because it certainly wasn't about me.
Lisa, your writing is pish and your life is pitiful. Ha, ha, ha - I beg to differ.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Run baby run
So I'm training for a half marathon. Partly because I got carried away with my bionic woman plans, and partly because someone laughed and said I couldn't do it. They were right. I couldn't.
I've never really run, always having thought I wasn't built for running. But then, chicken and egg, what if I'm not built for running because I don't run?
Having kitted myself out with some proper trainers (apparently I have a natural gait - still doesn't make me a natural runner though), some anti-blister socks, a running t-shirt and some cut-off joggers, I headed out to Arthur's Seat - for a run.
It didn't last long. I couldn't even manage to keep running for one song on the ipod. I swear, I had to stop and splutter my lungs into action again. A couple, whom I'd passed as I started out - and who knew how little I'd actually run, were approaching so I had to hide behind a bush so they wouldn't see me pathetically trying to compose myself. It didn't take long for the self-hatred to kick in, and once it did - it stuck around.
Why am I so crap? Why can't I do this? I'm the most pathetic person ever! Arrrgggh.
I went into work the next day and bemoaned my status to everyone who would listen. Fortunately for me, I sit next to Kirsty. Let me tell you a little something about Kirsty.
You may remember I mentioned I was personality type ENFP? Well, Kirsty is an ESTJ. It's about as opposite as you can get from mine. So where I hate plans, am always late and never want the detail, Kirsty actually says things like: "Well, if you read the Health & Safety policy on that." She's wonderfully gullible too, so I have a blast. Last week, I told her to remember a name for me (I always forget Brenda in the mailroom's surname). "Actually, do you think you could make me a Rolodex for my desk? That would be really handy." "Why don't you just get them all to give you business cards and it would almost make itself?" "But that would involve me having to do something. I'd like you to do it for me." "Well, can't you just use your contacts in Outlook?" "Oh, is that what that is? It's like an electronic Rolodex?" "Yes, Lisa. That's what that is." "Well, do you think you could populate it for me?" "No I bloody well will not. You think I'm your PA." "But you're so good at it Kirsty. You're a natural." "I can't wait until the office move. I hope I'm not sitting next to you."
Today we were on a photoshop training course and she chose to sit next to me (she can't resist it, you see. A moth to the flame). The course organiser asked if I had any experience of photoshop and I explained that I'd only used it to cut out people's faces and put them onto animals' bodies. Then I turned to Kirsty and said: "it was your face by the way." For the rest of the day, she kept asking me what animal I'd stuck her face on.
Anyway, back to the original post, Kirsty is a know-it-all so when I told her about my crap running experience, she told me about mapmyrun.com. You can construct a training plan and plot routes so you know exactly how far you're running. When I got home from work that night, I logged on and got started. I put together an entire training programme and mapped out routes in 0.5K increments all the way up to a half marathon. I started with a kilometre.
I realised I had gone at it all far too quickly that first day, and that, possibly, running to Don't Stop Me Now by Queen was not the best choice for a beginner. I put together a clever playlist on the 'pod that had some good slow and steady beats. It goes like this: Girlfriend in a Coma (The Smiths), Great DJ (Ting Tings), For the Girl (The Fratellis), All These Things That I've Done (The Killers), London Calling (The Clash), That's Entertainment (The Jam). Having now tested it in practice numerous times, I can tell you it's class.
I kept it slow and steady and completed the kilometre without stopping, or dying. I did it every night for a week. I was doing it in under 6 minutes by the end of the week, which isn't too bad considering. Then I moved onto my next route - 2.5K - every night for a week. Averaging 14 minutes. Last night was my first crack at 3K. I did it, but I fought a battle with my brain and my legs until the very end. Mind you, the most difficult part is still trying to put on or take off my sports bra.
I'm starting to really enjoy it (there's this one bit where I run over the bridge and my right foot strikes the road - I love that bit), and I do look forward to getting it done. Also, there's a lot of satisfaction at seeing yourself improve on something on a near daily basis. I feel kind of like I'm taking part in that Faking It programme. They've air-lifted some lard-ass off the sofa and are turning her into a half-marathoner. I'm still not sure I'll convince anyone, but the self-hatred is dissipating.
I've never really run, always having thought I wasn't built for running. But then, chicken and egg, what if I'm not built for running because I don't run?
Having kitted myself out with some proper trainers (apparently I have a natural gait - still doesn't make me a natural runner though), some anti-blister socks, a running t-shirt and some cut-off joggers, I headed out to Arthur's Seat - for a run.
It didn't last long. I couldn't even manage to keep running for one song on the ipod. I swear, I had to stop and splutter my lungs into action again. A couple, whom I'd passed as I started out - and who knew how little I'd actually run, were approaching so I had to hide behind a bush so they wouldn't see me pathetically trying to compose myself. It didn't take long for the self-hatred to kick in, and once it did - it stuck around.
Why am I so crap? Why can't I do this? I'm the most pathetic person ever! Arrrgggh.
I went into work the next day and bemoaned my status to everyone who would listen. Fortunately for me, I sit next to Kirsty. Let me tell you a little something about Kirsty.
You may remember I mentioned I was personality type ENFP? Well, Kirsty is an ESTJ. It's about as opposite as you can get from mine. So where I hate plans, am always late and never want the detail, Kirsty actually says things like: "Well, if you read the Health & Safety policy on that." She's wonderfully gullible too, so I have a blast. Last week, I told her to remember a name for me (I always forget Brenda in the mailroom's surname). "Actually, do you think you could make me a Rolodex for my desk? That would be really handy." "Why don't you just get them all to give you business cards and it would almost make itself?" "But that would involve me having to do something. I'd like you to do it for me." "Well, can't you just use your contacts in Outlook?" "Oh, is that what that is? It's like an electronic Rolodex?" "Yes, Lisa. That's what that is." "Well, do you think you could populate it for me?" "No I bloody well will not. You think I'm your PA." "But you're so good at it Kirsty. You're a natural." "I can't wait until the office move. I hope I'm not sitting next to you."
Today we were on a photoshop training course and she chose to sit next to me (she can't resist it, you see. A moth to the flame). The course organiser asked if I had any experience of photoshop and I explained that I'd only used it to cut out people's faces and put them onto animals' bodies. Then I turned to Kirsty and said: "it was your face by the way." For the rest of the day, she kept asking me what animal I'd stuck her face on.
Anyway, back to the original post, Kirsty is a know-it-all so when I told her about my crap running experience, she told me about mapmyrun.com. You can construct a training plan and plot routes so you know exactly how far you're running. When I got home from work that night, I logged on and got started. I put together an entire training programme and mapped out routes in 0.5K increments all the way up to a half marathon. I started with a kilometre.
I realised I had gone at it all far too quickly that first day, and that, possibly, running to Don't Stop Me Now by Queen was not the best choice for a beginner. I put together a clever playlist on the 'pod that had some good slow and steady beats. It goes like this: Girlfriend in a Coma (The Smiths), Great DJ (Ting Tings), For the Girl (The Fratellis), All These Things That I've Done (The Killers), London Calling (The Clash), That's Entertainment (The Jam). Having now tested it in practice numerous times, I can tell you it's class.
I kept it slow and steady and completed the kilometre without stopping, or dying. I did it every night for a week. I was doing it in under 6 minutes by the end of the week, which isn't too bad considering. Then I moved onto my next route - 2.5K - every night for a week. Averaging 14 minutes. Last night was my first crack at 3K. I did it, but I fought a battle with my brain and my legs until the very end. Mind you, the most difficult part is still trying to put on or take off my sports bra.
I'm starting to really enjoy it (there's this one bit where I run over the bridge and my right foot strikes the road - I love that bit), and I do look forward to getting it done. Also, there's a lot of satisfaction at seeing yourself improve on something on a near daily basis. I feel kind of like I'm taking part in that Faking It programme. They've air-lifted some lard-ass off the sofa and are turning her into a half-marathoner. I'm still not sure I'll convince anyone, but the self-hatred is dissipating.
Friday, August 08, 2008
Mince pies
In my week off, I also managed to get to the optician's for my laser eye surgery appointment. I know loads of people who have been getting this done, including my 70-year old Grandad. I met him on George Street after he'd been in for a check-up and he was walking along the street wearing black-out RayBans. My Grandad has a full head of shiny white hair so he looked a bit like a reversed-out Ray Charles.
Anyway, I figure if my septuagenarian grandfather can do it, so can I. What I was forgetting was that he is minted (mostly because he does the rounds of the pensioners' lunch and dinners and doesn't really spend much money). I however, will have to forgo a lot of cocktails and unnecessary purchases in order to fund mine. Apparently, because I have such enormous pupils I don't qualify for the standard (reasonably priced) treatment. "Yeah, but you just said you put drops in my eyes to purposefully dilate my pupils." "Ha ha. You're funny." Hmmm, I wonder how many people have 'enormous pupils' and 'don't qualify' for the standard treatment.
The optician was manic and seemed to have received some kind of training in order to try to hypnotise me with her eyes, her smile and her quasi-American voice. She kept telling me that the advanced (expensive) treatment was approved by NASA and all the astronauts were having it. "Oh, I'm not an astronaut," I said, "I know I left the occupation field blank but that was just because I don't think you need to know what I do for a living." "Ha ha. You're funny." Also, it's annoying that they give you a price per eye. "So that'll be £1000 per eye." "Actually, I think I'll just get one done." "You just want to do one eye?" "Yeah, I was thinking the left one, and I can wear a patch over the right one. Patches are totally in this season." "Ha ha. You're funny." Honestly, it felt like I was being sold a time-share.
I told them I'd think about it. I want to explore why I don't qualify for the standard treatment. I mean, I'd much rather have the cool astronaut treatment for my enormous pupils (and probably will), but I hate bullshit and I'd like to know if that's what I was getting today.
After the eyes, I'm going to get my teeth whitened, then the botox. I'm toying with the idea of trying to build myself into a bionic woman/Robocop. You know, just for a laugh.
Anyway, I figure if my septuagenarian grandfather can do it, so can I. What I was forgetting was that he is minted (mostly because he does the rounds of the pensioners' lunch and dinners and doesn't really spend much money). I however, will have to forgo a lot of cocktails and unnecessary purchases in order to fund mine. Apparently, because I have such enormous pupils I don't qualify for the standard (reasonably priced) treatment. "Yeah, but you just said you put drops in my eyes to purposefully dilate my pupils." "Ha ha. You're funny." Hmmm, I wonder how many people have 'enormous pupils' and 'don't qualify' for the standard treatment.
The optician was manic and seemed to have received some kind of training in order to try to hypnotise me with her eyes, her smile and her quasi-American voice. She kept telling me that the advanced (expensive) treatment was approved by NASA and all the astronauts were having it. "Oh, I'm not an astronaut," I said, "I know I left the occupation field blank but that was just because I don't think you need to know what I do for a living." "Ha ha. You're funny." Also, it's annoying that they give you a price per eye. "So that'll be £1000 per eye." "Actually, I think I'll just get one done." "You just want to do one eye?" "Yeah, I was thinking the left one, and I can wear a patch over the right one. Patches are totally in this season." "Ha ha. You're funny." Honestly, it felt like I was being sold a time-share.
I told them I'd think about it. I want to explore why I don't qualify for the standard treatment. I mean, I'd much rather have the cool astronaut treatment for my enormous pupils (and probably will), but I hate bullshit and I'd like to know if that's what I was getting today.
After the eyes, I'm going to get my teeth whitened, then the botox. I'm toying with the idea of trying to build myself into a bionic woman/Robocop. You know, just for a laugh.
Friday, August 01, 2008
Family history
My week off has been productive, enjoyable and relaxing.
I did fear that it might get off to a bad start when my mum told me she was meeting up with my mother-in-law for lunch on the Monday. I feared for the worst when she suggested I come along too. That's the thing, in-laws can be enough of a hassle when you're married, but when the marriage ends you don't necessarily get rid of them.
I did feel kind of bad since my in-laws always send me birthday, Christmas and Easter cards and the occasional 'thought of you' card in between, whilst I have tended to avoid any sort of contact at all. Not because I'm being rude or nasty, but just because it's for the best.
Anyway, as my mum pointed out to me, I'm in a completely different place now, and so much happier with my life that it couldn't really do me any harm. So I agreed to go along. I was glad I did. My mother-in-law was so thrilled to see me, I felt like I'd made her year. And I must admit, I rather enjoyed casually dropping into conversation all the things I'd managed to do in the last 3 years:
I did fear that it might get off to a bad start when my mum told me she was meeting up with my mother-in-law for lunch on the Monday. I feared for the worst when she suggested I come along too. That's the thing, in-laws can be enough of a hassle when you're married, but when the marriage ends you don't necessarily get rid of them.
I did feel kind of bad since my in-laws always send me birthday, Christmas and Easter cards and the occasional 'thought of you' card in between, whilst I have tended to avoid any sort of contact at all. Not because I'm being rude or nasty, but just because it's for the best.
Anyway, as my mum pointed out to me, I'm in a completely different place now, and so much happier with my life that it couldn't really do me any harm. So I agreed to go along. I was glad I did. My mother-in-law was so thrilled to see me, I felt like I'd made her year. And I must admit, I rather enjoyed casually dropping into conversation all the things I'd managed to do in the last 3 years:
- buy my own flat
- earn almost £20,000 more
- write a book
- get a whole new set of friends
- compile my family history
- travel to Mexico, New York (twice), Hong Kong, Thailand, Cambodia, Santorini, Las Vegas, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Cook Islands, New Zealand and Australia
- start enjoying my life
Somewhat annoyingly, she's still looking for a nice neat explanation for why it all ended. She seems to like the idea that it was a 'youthful romance that just went on too long'. It's nice, but it's nonsense. Unfortunately, she's asking the wrong person. Like her, I don't have any answers. Unlike her, I gave up on looking for them a while back. The only thing I could tell her for sure is that I am happier than I've ever been before, and for the first time since my childhood I actually feel like I'm living the life I wanted to. That seemed to comfort her.
On Wednesday, I went off to the National Registrar's Office in pursuit of my ancestors. I got there at 0915 and was assigned a desk. I had a computer in front of me and access to pretty much any records I wanted to look at. So what did I do when faced with the possibility of looking up anything I wanted to? I searched for myself. I was berating myself even whilst I was doing it. You know all about you. And you actually have a copy of your birth certificate in the flat. What the hell are you doing? Ooh, ooh, ooh, look, I'm there. I exist. After indulging myself with myself, I proceeded to do some general research and then get to the bottom of some irksome points.
Previously I'd thought my ancestors all came from Fife and Ireland, but it's a bit more varied than that - thankfully. My mum's dad's mum's family all come from Clackmannanshire. My dad's mum's mum's side all come from places like Banff, Buchan and Inverallochy. And my dad's dad's mum's side come from East Lothian. My great great great grandparents actually got married in Constitution Street in Leith, which is a street I used to walk down every day on my way to work. I think that's quite cool.
Remember I told you about the rumoured suicide of my great great grandad? Well, I found it. He did commit suicide by coal gas poisoning. He was 70 years old. I thought that was quite unusual. The only old person I know who committed suicide was Brooks in The Shawshank Redemption and that was because he'd been on the inside for over 40 years and couldn't handle modern life. On closer inspection of the certificate, it appeared my great great grandad had malignant prostititis. I've reasoned that he was in so much agony there was no hope of relief other than death itself. It's very sad though.
The other interesting bit of information/gossip was that I found a correction entry for my great great great grandad's birth. I'd already tracked down his birth certificate and noted there was no father listed. Written under his name was the word ILLEGITIMATE. Anyway, this correction entry is like a little book all in itself. Apparently, about a year after he was born, his mum actioned a case in the Cupar Sheriff Court to have an 'Alexander Gilmour' named as his father. The court sided with her. I want to know how you go about proving something like that in 1862. I mean, there's no Jerry Springer DNA test. There's no cameras or mobile phones to record any kind of contact. How did they do it? Also, the Gilmours are the family that owned (and still own) the 'big hoose' in Largoward. High society scandal.
I imagined that if I were famous and taking part in that BBC programme about tracing your relatives that this would be the bit where I would excuse myself and wander off. The camera would zoom in on me and I'd be wiping away a tear and trying to compose myself.
Friday, July 25, 2008
The elephant at the funeral
As a general rule, funerals are not amusing.
But if it's a more distant family member who had been suffering for quite sometime and you're not as grief-stricken as you might be in other cases, and you couple that with the fact you've got a family like mine in attendance ... well then, there will probably be, at least at some point, embarrassed giggling.
At the end of March my Gran's older sister died. I got a text from my mum at work. It was mostly about something else but had that news tagged onto the end of it in a kind of Trevor MacDonald 'And finally' type way.
I sent a text back asking my mum if she thought I should go to the funeral. 'If you can, that would be best' came the reply. My mum doesn't normally make any demands of me so that was akin to her saying 'yes, you really should.'
Luckily, the funeral was on Easter Monday and I was off work so I didn't have to use one of my holidays. Then it struck me that the funeral would be in the church. I mean the church. It was a major thing for me because the last time I was in that church was for my own wedding. I hadn't set foot in it since that day and I wasn't sure how I'd react. Maybe I'd get there and I wouldn't be able to do it. Maybe I'd start crying. Well, crying at a funeral that's not too weird. Maybe I'd be OK.
I went out to Katy's leaving night on the Friday and noticed a missed call from my mum on my way home. I called her back.
Mum: I didn't want to ask you.
Me: Ask me what?
Mum: I didn't want to ask you, but you're dad said I should let you decide.
Me: Decide what?
Mum: Your gran asked your dad if you'd say a few words about her sister at the funeral.
Me: What? Seriously?
Mum: I know. I know. I didn't want to ask you.
Me: Doesn't gran think it might be hard enough for me coming back to the church without having to walk down the aisle, stand up on the altar and face everyone?
Mum: I know darling. I don't think you should do it. It's far too much for you.
Me: It is. I thought I was doing really well with actually going. Now if I don't do this, I'll feel like a big failure.
Mum: You're not a failure. I'll just say that you're not doing it.
Me: Yeah. Besides, I don't even really know Gran's sister. What would I say? I normally just make stuff up when I have to speak, but that's not really appropriate at a funeral. I'd probably end up saying something like: 'It's a little known fact, but Margaret was a talented gymnast who was on her way to competing at the Rome Olympics'. I mean, that's interesting and poetic, and good speech material, but it's not true.
In the end, the funeral was fine and there was no swell of nostalgia or pain or any feeling at all really, when I walked into the church. I was sitting next to my dad who nudged me when the priest walked past.
Me: What is it?
Dad: Did the priest give you a wee nod there?
Me: I don't think so. I wasn't really looking.
Dad: Aye, aye, he was. He just gave you a wee nod there as went past just to say 'I see you and I know you and eh, thanks for coming and I acknowledge you and eh, aye'.
Me: Right.
At the graveside I was standing with Liam and my younger cousins Claire, Michael and Nicole. Liam asked Claire who the guy with my cousin Nicolas was. "That's his pal George," Michael said. "He brought his friend to his Gran's sister's funeral? What's going on there?" "I know," said Michael, "it looks a bit gay eh?" "I'll say" said Liam. Michael shouted Nicolas over. "Nick, Nick, where's ... eh ... George?" Nicolas came over. "Eh, he's over there. How?" "Aye, we're just thinking it looks a bit gay eh?" "Piss off."
Afterwards we went to the golf club for tea and sandwiches. I didn't really want to be there, but thought it would be rude if I didn't show face, especially as my mum and dad had left for Barcelona after the church service. I was sitting at the end of a long table full of my Gran's sisters-in-law and cousins. Thankfully, Liam, Claire and Cameron were next to me.
Isobel, my auntie Karen's mother-in-law, smiled and said 'you're looking well Lisa'. I smiled back, said thanks and hoped nobody else would take too much notice of me. However, with my dad's auntie Margaret from Zambia in attendance there was never going to be any chance of that. In a booming theatrical voice (think Elaine C Smith after 35 years of White Mischief in the African sun) and from the other end of the table she said "And when do we get to read the book you've written about that bastard?"
My cousin Claire has always had the rather impressive ability of being able to speak without moving her lips at all. "Oh my God, oh my God, I can't believe this. This is excruciating. She better stop now. Oh my God, Lis. Oh my God." Liam, my wonderfully supportive baby brother, was creasing himself with laughter. "Haha. Quality."
I smiled back at her. "It's not about him," I said, "it's about me."
"Good for you. Stick it right up him." I couldn't help but laugh at that one. "This is unbelievable," Claire said to me, still without moving her lips. "Does it even have to be mentioned at all?" Margaret must have made a few more comments that I didn't hear, because my gran put on her firm tone when she said: "Margaret."
My gran decided to take this opportunity to apologise for asking me to speak at the mass for her sister. "I just wasn't thinking. And then when your dad said ... I just couldn't get over it. I was so angry at myself for not thinking. The priest was round last night and I said 'Oh Father, you'll never believe what I've gone and done. I wasn't even realising this would be her first time back in the Church'. He was asking after you, you know. He was wondering how you're getting on and if you've met someone else yet."
(I'd heard about priests not giving you long between children, but I figured they'd take a different stance on time between husbands. Obviously, I'd figured wrong.)
"And I just said 'well no Father. Not yet.' And he said to me: 'but she will. She's a lovely girl and she'll get somebody nice I'm sure of it.' So there you are." Liam was laughing so hard some of his cider was running out from his mouth. Claire had gone manic with embarrassment for me and was saying things like: "Lis, I need to get you out of here. This is unbelievable. We'll just get up and walk towards that door. I've seen the quickest route and we can just go for it."
My gran wasn't done though. She put her hand on top of mine and said: "The Father would like to see you married again. And I'd like to see you married again." (I'm thinking 'oh my God, why??? Why would you wish that on me? I'm happy. I'm really happy. I'm happy with my freedom and my lack of responsibility and my casual, albeit sometimes embarrassing, sexual encounters'.)
Everyone at the table was listening by this point and expressing various degrees of the pity head tilt. My Gran's brother had joined the table and said in extreme disbelief: "Have you not met anyone new yet?" "Hahaha (nervous laughter) ... not especially no." He turned to the rest of the table and said: "you sometimes find that with the really braw lassies though don't you? It's sometimes the really bonnie ones that struggle." At this point Liam spat out his drink and was in the grip of a full-on belly laugh. I wanted nothing more than to stand up and point out that I wasn't struggling, I was actually choosing not to get too involved with anyone, and to give my gran a detailed list of exactly what I'd been up to so she could pass it on to the Priest.
But I just smiled and said "thanks uncle Mike, there's a compliment in there somewhere ... I think."
But if it's a more distant family member who had been suffering for quite sometime and you're not as grief-stricken as you might be in other cases, and you couple that with the fact you've got a family like mine in attendance ... well then, there will probably be, at least at some point, embarrassed giggling.
At the end of March my Gran's older sister died. I got a text from my mum at work. It was mostly about something else but had that news tagged onto the end of it in a kind of Trevor MacDonald 'And finally' type way.
I sent a text back asking my mum if she thought I should go to the funeral. 'If you can, that would be best' came the reply. My mum doesn't normally make any demands of me so that was akin to her saying 'yes, you really should.'
Luckily, the funeral was on Easter Monday and I was off work so I didn't have to use one of my holidays. Then it struck me that the funeral would be in the church. I mean the church. It was a major thing for me because the last time I was in that church was for my own wedding. I hadn't set foot in it since that day and I wasn't sure how I'd react. Maybe I'd get there and I wouldn't be able to do it. Maybe I'd start crying. Well, crying at a funeral that's not too weird. Maybe I'd be OK.
I went out to Katy's leaving night on the Friday and noticed a missed call from my mum on my way home. I called her back.
Mum: I didn't want to ask you.
Me: Ask me what?
Mum: I didn't want to ask you, but you're dad said I should let you decide.
Me: Decide what?
Mum: Your gran asked your dad if you'd say a few words about her sister at the funeral.
Me: What? Seriously?
Mum: I know. I know. I didn't want to ask you.
Me: Doesn't gran think it might be hard enough for me coming back to the church without having to walk down the aisle, stand up on the altar and face everyone?
Mum: I know darling. I don't think you should do it. It's far too much for you.
Me: It is. I thought I was doing really well with actually going. Now if I don't do this, I'll feel like a big failure.
Mum: You're not a failure. I'll just say that you're not doing it.
Me: Yeah. Besides, I don't even really know Gran's sister. What would I say? I normally just make stuff up when I have to speak, but that's not really appropriate at a funeral. I'd probably end up saying something like: 'It's a little known fact, but Margaret was a talented gymnast who was on her way to competing at the Rome Olympics'. I mean, that's interesting and poetic, and good speech material, but it's not true.
In the end, the funeral was fine and there was no swell of nostalgia or pain or any feeling at all really, when I walked into the church. I was sitting next to my dad who nudged me when the priest walked past.
Me: What is it?
Dad: Did the priest give you a wee nod there?
Me: I don't think so. I wasn't really looking.
Dad: Aye, aye, he was. He just gave you a wee nod there as went past just to say 'I see you and I know you and eh, thanks for coming and I acknowledge you and eh, aye'.
Me: Right.
At the graveside I was standing with Liam and my younger cousins Claire, Michael and Nicole. Liam asked Claire who the guy with my cousin Nicolas was. "That's his pal George," Michael said. "He brought his friend to his Gran's sister's funeral? What's going on there?" "I know," said Michael, "it looks a bit gay eh?" "I'll say" said Liam. Michael shouted Nicolas over. "Nick, Nick, where's ... eh ... George?" Nicolas came over. "Eh, he's over there. How?" "Aye, we're just thinking it looks a bit gay eh?" "Piss off."
Afterwards we went to the golf club for tea and sandwiches. I didn't really want to be there, but thought it would be rude if I didn't show face, especially as my mum and dad had left for Barcelona after the church service. I was sitting at the end of a long table full of my Gran's sisters-in-law and cousins. Thankfully, Liam, Claire and Cameron were next to me.
Isobel, my auntie Karen's mother-in-law, smiled and said 'you're looking well Lisa'. I smiled back, said thanks and hoped nobody else would take too much notice of me. However, with my dad's auntie Margaret from Zambia in attendance there was never going to be any chance of that. In a booming theatrical voice (think Elaine C Smith after 35 years of White Mischief in the African sun) and from the other end of the table she said "And when do we get to read the book you've written about that bastard?"
My cousin Claire has always had the rather impressive ability of being able to speak without moving her lips at all. "Oh my God, oh my God, I can't believe this. This is excruciating. She better stop now. Oh my God, Lis. Oh my God." Liam, my wonderfully supportive baby brother, was creasing himself with laughter. "Haha. Quality."
I smiled back at her. "It's not about him," I said, "it's about me."
"Good for you. Stick it right up him." I couldn't help but laugh at that one. "This is unbelievable," Claire said to me, still without moving her lips. "Does it even have to be mentioned at all?" Margaret must have made a few more comments that I didn't hear, because my gran put on her firm tone when she said: "Margaret."
My gran decided to take this opportunity to apologise for asking me to speak at the mass for her sister. "I just wasn't thinking. And then when your dad said ... I just couldn't get over it. I was so angry at myself for not thinking. The priest was round last night and I said 'Oh Father, you'll never believe what I've gone and done. I wasn't even realising this would be her first time back in the Church'. He was asking after you, you know. He was wondering how you're getting on and if you've met someone else yet."
(I'd heard about priests not giving you long between children, but I figured they'd take a different stance on time between husbands. Obviously, I'd figured wrong.)
"And I just said 'well no Father. Not yet.' And he said to me: 'but she will. She's a lovely girl and she'll get somebody nice I'm sure of it.' So there you are." Liam was laughing so hard some of his cider was running out from his mouth. Claire had gone manic with embarrassment for me and was saying things like: "Lis, I need to get you out of here. This is unbelievable. We'll just get up and walk towards that door. I've seen the quickest route and we can just go for it."
My gran wasn't done though. She put her hand on top of mine and said: "The Father would like to see you married again. And I'd like to see you married again." (I'm thinking 'oh my God, why??? Why would you wish that on me? I'm happy. I'm really happy. I'm happy with my freedom and my lack of responsibility and my casual, albeit sometimes embarrassing, sexual encounters'.)
Everyone at the table was listening by this point and expressing various degrees of the pity head tilt. My Gran's brother had joined the table and said in extreme disbelief: "Have you not met anyone new yet?" "Hahaha (nervous laughter) ... not especially no." He turned to the rest of the table and said: "you sometimes find that with the really braw lassies though don't you? It's sometimes the really bonnie ones that struggle." At this point Liam spat out his drink and was in the grip of a full-on belly laugh. I wanted nothing more than to stand up and point out that I wasn't struggling, I was actually choosing not to get too involved with anyone, and to give my gran a detailed list of exactly what I'd been up to so she could pass it on to the Priest.
But I just smiled and said "thanks uncle Mike, there's a compliment in there somewhere ... I think."
Sunday, July 20, 2008
I carried a watermelon
I am on holiday this week and enjoying it.
I was badly in need of it. The late nights and stupidly early rises had taken their toll. I never realise how stressed and run down I am until my body does something to spell it out for me. Sometimes it makes me vomit, sometimes it throws my cycle off kilter (sometimes it does both those things at the same time, which is really scary and even more stressful), sometimes it gives me an eczema-type thing on my knuckles, but this time it gave me red blotches up my neck and behind my ears. Strange but true.
At work I was furiously trying to get everything tied up before I went off on holiday. This included contract/cost negotiations with one agency and two agencies who moan about the slightest change of plan. Honestly. When I invite agencies to pitch for me in future, one of the things I'm going to be looking for is someone who is as cool under pressure as I am. Yes, I may be a blotchy-necked stress-head, but no one would know it from speaking to me.
The social side of things was frantic too, though considerably more enjoyable. Mog and I had dinner and cocktails at the Dome last Wednesday and I tried to convince her to start wearing an orthopaedic shoe. I toyed with the idea of leaving my car on George Street and having a few more, but I'd have had to get up ridiculously early to move it so I was sensible and resisted.
On Thursday night, I met up with Cat, Cabey and Alan from work for the pub quiz. When I arrived, Cat pointed out that the rest of the people looked quite geeky and clever and the only hope for us was that I flashed them. I told her that she was sorely underestimating my pub quiz skills. Alas, I never got a chance to wow them as the quiz never happened. We made up for it by making our way through some chili nachos and a significant amount of alcohol. We tried to come up with a team name for future, but struggled. Cat suggested we choose one word which is always in our team name and then the rest of it changes every week. Alan suggested we use the word 'bint'. So I suggested we replace a word from a famous movie title with the word 'bint' every week. We tested it out on some James Bond films to see how it would work (Dr Bint, Bintfinger, On Her Bint's Secret Service, The Bint with the Golden Gun (or The Man with the Golden Bint), The Bint who Loved Me and Bintpussy).
Friday night was Anne and David's leaving night. I managed to get there before eight o'clock. I spent most of the night talking to Angela and Susie whilst fondling the lining of a guy called Harvard's jacket, which was hanging on the back of the sofa we were sitting on. Sometime after midnight on Easter Road I was amazed that, as merry as she was, Anne was still able to dismiss a guy with a very cool one-liner. Impressive. I told her this and she said 'yeah. I like how your way of handling it was just to edge yourself away from the situation and leave me to deal with it.'
It's true, I am rubbish in these situations. I normally get stuck for ages trying to politely tell someone to get lost. Drunk people scare me though and being smart in these situations reminds me of growing up in Fife and saying the wrong thing to a girl who accused me of flirting with her boyfriend at Jackie-O's. I pointed out to her that her boyfriend didn't have any teeth so he wasn't really what I considered to be 'a catch' and surely she must be mistaken. She told me that she was going to 'rip the fiss aff' me, which translates as 'rip your face off'. I spent the rest of the night in fear for both myself and my Jaegar mini-dress.
Since then I've come to rely on my friends to help me out of awkward situations. Sinead is classic with her no-nonsense approach. In San Francisco I got stopped by two guys asking where I was from and what I was up to and whether I'd like to go for a drink. Sinead had kept walking, turned around, shook her head, walked back to us and said: "Lis, do you have any intention of having sex with these guys?" The three of us were totally shocked. "No, of course not ..." "Well come on then."
On Saturday I woke up when I heard someone leaving a message on my answer machine. I looked up at the clock. 2:22pm. I don't think I've ever slept in that late in my life. I was thoroughly disgusted with myself and slightly anxious that I might be ill. Anyway, it made for a very weird day. By the time I'd showered and got dressed and had breakfast, it was about four o'clock. I had just enough time to run down to the framers to collect my pictures. I hurried round Sainsbury's and bumped into a guy from work.
I hate bumping into people from work in the supermarket. It's always awkward and it's always when you're buying tampons. (And now that I know I buy more than the average woman, it makes me feel even more weird. When Sinead and I did a communal toiletries shop for our RTW trip, Sinead asked if I was planning on having a hemorrhage.) So anyway, he said: "Hi Lisa." And I said "Hi" back. That's all you really need to say isn't it? But because he probably felt awkward, he clearly felt he had to say something else. So he said: "Doing your weekly shop?" What, in the supermarket? I mean, what are you supposed to say to that?
Well, you could help him out - even if it means lying - by saying "yes". At which point he would probably look at my basket (if he hadn't already) and see that it contained only tampons. Then he would probably say "bye" and I'd say "bye". So our full interaction would have consisted of:
Him: Hi Lisa
Me: Hi
Him: Doing your weekly shop?
Me: Yes.
Him: (On scan of basket he sees tampons) Bye
Me: Bye
How pointless and shit is that? Why didn't he just leave it at "Hi"?
Now in these situations, my head is always running a bit further ahead and I'd have known that the 'yes' answer would lead to a pointless and shit conversation and he'd get out to the car park and start banging his head off the steering wheel repeating "Doing your weekly shop?" like it was the 'watermelon' line from Dirty Dancing. So I wanted it to be less awkward somehow.
The thing is, when I feel awkward I respond by talking far too much and telling people way more than they want or need to know. For example, when I was last at the doctors having a smear test, the doctor said "you have excellent muscle control", which freaked me right out. I mean, like it's not embarrassing enough for the patient, they now feel they have to add commentary. I manically said it was probably on account of my pilates classes and proceeded to tell her absolutely everything there is to know about pilates. I must have gone on about it for almost 20 minutes.
Meanwhile back at the supermarket check-out, instead of saying 'yes', I decided to launch into a big explanation that went a bit like this: "No. No, I just popped in to get a few bits and pieces. Well, you know, like tampons (now throwing them over my shoulder onto the conveyor belt). I get my shopping delivered cause, you know, it's better for the environment and I'm quite busy, and the delivery guy is a hottie. I mean he's really young, but he's quite hot. But he's not that young because he drives the van so he has to be at least 17. Ha ha ha."
So then I went out to the car park and banged my head off the steering wheel.
I was badly in need of it. The late nights and stupidly early rises had taken their toll. I never realise how stressed and run down I am until my body does something to spell it out for me. Sometimes it makes me vomit, sometimes it throws my cycle off kilter (sometimes it does both those things at the same time, which is really scary and even more stressful), sometimes it gives me an eczema-type thing on my knuckles, but this time it gave me red blotches up my neck and behind my ears. Strange but true.
At work I was furiously trying to get everything tied up before I went off on holiday. This included contract/cost negotiations with one agency and two agencies who moan about the slightest change of plan. Honestly. When I invite agencies to pitch for me in future, one of the things I'm going to be looking for is someone who is as cool under pressure as I am. Yes, I may be a blotchy-necked stress-head, but no one would know it from speaking to me.
The social side of things was frantic too, though considerably more enjoyable. Mog and I had dinner and cocktails at the Dome last Wednesday and I tried to convince her to start wearing an orthopaedic shoe. I toyed with the idea of leaving my car on George Street and having a few more, but I'd have had to get up ridiculously early to move it so I was sensible and resisted.
On Thursday night, I met up with Cat, Cabey and Alan from work for the pub quiz. When I arrived, Cat pointed out that the rest of the people looked quite geeky and clever and the only hope for us was that I flashed them. I told her that she was sorely underestimating my pub quiz skills. Alas, I never got a chance to wow them as the quiz never happened. We made up for it by making our way through some chili nachos and a significant amount of alcohol. We tried to come up with a team name for future, but struggled. Cat suggested we choose one word which is always in our team name and then the rest of it changes every week. Alan suggested we use the word 'bint'. So I suggested we replace a word from a famous movie title with the word 'bint' every week. We tested it out on some James Bond films to see how it would work (Dr Bint, Bintfinger, On Her Bint's Secret Service, The Bint with the Golden Gun (or The Man with the Golden Bint), The Bint who Loved Me and Bintpussy).
Friday night was Anne and David's leaving night. I managed to get there before eight o'clock. I spent most of the night talking to Angela and Susie whilst fondling the lining of a guy called Harvard's jacket, which was hanging on the back of the sofa we were sitting on. Sometime after midnight on Easter Road I was amazed that, as merry as she was, Anne was still able to dismiss a guy with a very cool one-liner. Impressive. I told her this and she said 'yeah. I like how your way of handling it was just to edge yourself away from the situation and leave me to deal with it.'
It's true, I am rubbish in these situations. I normally get stuck for ages trying to politely tell someone to get lost. Drunk people scare me though and being smart in these situations reminds me of growing up in Fife and saying the wrong thing to a girl who accused me of flirting with her boyfriend at Jackie-O's. I pointed out to her that her boyfriend didn't have any teeth so he wasn't really what I considered to be 'a catch' and surely she must be mistaken. She told me that she was going to 'rip the fiss aff' me, which translates as 'rip your face off'. I spent the rest of the night in fear for both myself and my Jaegar mini-dress.
Since then I've come to rely on my friends to help me out of awkward situations. Sinead is classic with her no-nonsense approach. In San Francisco I got stopped by two guys asking where I was from and what I was up to and whether I'd like to go for a drink. Sinead had kept walking, turned around, shook her head, walked back to us and said: "Lis, do you have any intention of having sex with these guys?" The three of us were totally shocked. "No, of course not ..." "Well come on then."
On Saturday I woke up when I heard someone leaving a message on my answer machine. I looked up at the clock. 2:22pm. I don't think I've ever slept in that late in my life. I was thoroughly disgusted with myself and slightly anxious that I might be ill. Anyway, it made for a very weird day. By the time I'd showered and got dressed and had breakfast, it was about four o'clock. I had just enough time to run down to the framers to collect my pictures. I hurried round Sainsbury's and bumped into a guy from work.
I hate bumping into people from work in the supermarket. It's always awkward and it's always when you're buying tampons. (And now that I know I buy more than the average woman, it makes me feel even more weird. When Sinead and I did a communal toiletries shop for our RTW trip, Sinead asked if I was planning on having a hemorrhage.) So anyway, he said: "Hi Lisa." And I said "Hi" back. That's all you really need to say isn't it? But because he probably felt awkward, he clearly felt he had to say something else. So he said: "Doing your weekly shop?" What, in the supermarket? I mean, what are you supposed to say to that?
Well, you could help him out - even if it means lying - by saying "yes". At which point he would probably look at my basket (if he hadn't already) and see that it contained only tampons. Then he would probably say "bye" and I'd say "bye". So our full interaction would have consisted of:
Him: Hi Lisa
Me: Hi
Him: Doing your weekly shop?
Me: Yes.
Him: (On scan of basket he sees tampons) Bye
Me: Bye
How pointless and shit is that? Why didn't he just leave it at "Hi"?
Now in these situations, my head is always running a bit further ahead and I'd have known that the 'yes' answer would lead to a pointless and shit conversation and he'd get out to the car park and start banging his head off the steering wheel repeating "Doing your weekly shop?" like it was the 'watermelon' line from Dirty Dancing. So I wanted it to be less awkward somehow.
The thing is, when I feel awkward I respond by talking far too much and telling people way more than they want or need to know. For example, when I was last at the doctors having a smear test, the doctor said "you have excellent muscle control", which freaked me right out. I mean, like it's not embarrassing enough for the patient, they now feel they have to add commentary. I manically said it was probably on account of my pilates classes and proceeded to tell her absolutely everything there is to know about pilates. I must have gone on about it for almost 20 minutes.
Meanwhile back at the supermarket check-out, instead of saying 'yes', I decided to launch into a big explanation that went a bit like this: "No. No, I just popped in to get a few bits and pieces. Well, you know, like tampons (now throwing them over my shoulder onto the conveyor belt). I get my shopping delivered cause, you know, it's better for the environment and I'm quite busy, and the delivery guy is a hottie. I mean he's really young, but he's quite hot. But he's not that young because he drives the van so he has to be at least 17. Ha ha ha."
So then I went out to the car park and banged my head off the steering wheel.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Inbreeding
Last Wednesday I discovered why I am enjoying work so much.
Everyone in our team was on a half-day Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI) course. I had confirmed, that which I already knew. I am an ENFP. A big one. It means I have lots of ideas that I become quite passionate about, but I don't really like data or details or deadlines. Apparently my preference for "not planning nor organising nor being pinned down" is off the scale. The head of the department looked at this and said: "that's interesting, considering the job you're doing. You must be very good at pretending to be something else." Too true.
Even better, my boss is an ENFP too. And, in our wider team, there are so many other ENFPs that our team type is also ENFP. It's like I've been welcomed home.
A common feature of people given those four letters is their hatred of routine. I hate routine. Although I have to admit I feel so much more in control when I adopt one. I find it difficult to choose my lunch every day. Even when I mix it up a bit and try the deli instead of the cafeteria or Tesco, I'm still paralysed at the point of having to choose something. It all feels so boring and same-y. On Tuesday, we went to the cafeteria and I said to Alice: "Sometimes I feel like my whole life is a baked potato. Maybe if I had more drama in my lunch I wouldn't have to inject so much ...
...into the rest of my life." "Maybe Lisa. Maybe."
Last weekend I spent practically the whole of Sunday on the computer researching my ancestry. This was after I'd roamed around Restalrig trying to find my car. I'd never been to Restalrig before so that was ... interesting. The other side of the stadium is like a whole different world.
Sunday had started when I got up and made breakfast for 'Dave' and I. Whilst we were arguing about long-life shopping bags, my blackberry buzzed and he called me a 'corporate whore'. It's all so romantic I'm fighting to contain my flowery prose. Anyway, he was heading home and I was going to buy something nice for my lunch to reward myself for all the family history research I was going to be doing.
When we got outside, I noticed that there were no cars in the street and realised there must be a football match on. My car wasn't there either. 'Dave' headed on home and I went to ask the policeman where my car was. "What's your registration?" "Er ... no." I replied shaking my head. I honestly don't know what my car registration is. Pathetic. But as I said at the start of this entry, I'm not so hot on the details.
"Can you phone your partner to get it?"
"It's OK, I've got a note of it in the flat. I'll just pop up and get it."
"Just give your partner a call, it'll be quicker."
"Er ... I don't have a 'partner'."
"Oh, right, was that not your partner? I thought ..."
"He's not my 'partner'."
"Oh. OK. He looked like he might be your partner."
"Well he's not. It's not that .... Anyway, it's my flat and it's my car and he doesn't know any more about it than I do. OK?"
"OK."
"I'll just go get that reg number for you."
"Well if you tell me what kind of car it is that'll do."
Honestly! He told me the car had been removed to Marionville Road and that would take about 15 minutes to walk to.
"I'll give you a lift if you like."
"No thanks. I'm fine with walking."
"But it's raining. I'll give you a wee lift round."
"No. It's fine. I could do with the exercise."
After picking up my car and my lunch, I set about the family history research. My paternal grandfather's mum's side of the family had been causing me problems. I'd located her death certificate and got her parents' names from that, but I couldn't find their marriage certificate. They've recently opened up a whole new set of records so I was able to get my great-grandparents' wedding certificate for 1932. This gave the same names for my great-great grandparents, but didn't give their wedding date ... because they never got married. (Oooh! How unconventional. I love it. However, that said, marriage certificates do make family history research much easier. So I now have a second pro for marriage. The first being that a well-crafted gift and guest list can furnish your entire flat. Still, that's 2 pros against 304 cons.) Apparently, my great-great grandad later committed suicide by sticking his head in a gas oven, but I've yet to find anything to support this. Maybe he did get married after all.
My mum's dad's side of the family is a headache too. They are all called James and Christina Thomson. All of them. So you get a guy called James Thomson marrying a woman called Christina Thomson (yes, same surname) and his parents are listed on his wedding certificate as James Thomson and Christina Thomson (nee Thomson), and her parents are listed as James and Christina Thomson (nee Thomson). Arrrggghhh! I phoned my mum to tell her that I've finally found an explanation for her squint pinky fingers. Disturbing. My great-great-great-great grandad on this side died of 'softening of the brain caused by sunstroke'. In Buckhaven?
Anyway, that's enough for now. I'll tell you about my embarrassing toe cleavage problems (no doubt due to the horrific levels of inbreeding amongst my ancestors) next time.
Everyone in our team was on a half-day Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI) course. I had confirmed, that which I already knew. I am an ENFP. A big one. It means I have lots of ideas that I become quite passionate about, but I don't really like data or details or deadlines. Apparently my preference for "not planning nor organising nor being pinned down" is off the scale. The head of the department looked at this and said: "that's interesting, considering the job you're doing. You must be very good at pretending to be something else." Too true.
Even better, my boss is an ENFP too. And, in our wider team, there are so many other ENFPs that our team type is also ENFP. It's like I've been welcomed home.
A common feature of people given those four letters is their hatred of routine. I hate routine. Although I have to admit I feel so much more in control when I adopt one. I find it difficult to choose my lunch every day. Even when I mix it up a bit and try the deli instead of the cafeteria or Tesco, I'm still paralysed at the point of having to choose something. It all feels so boring and same-y. On Tuesday, we went to the cafeteria and I said to Alice: "Sometimes I feel like my whole life is a baked potato. Maybe if I had more drama in my lunch I wouldn't have to inject so much ...
...into the rest of my life." "Maybe Lisa. Maybe."
Last weekend I spent practically the whole of Sunday on the computer researching my ancestry. This was after I'd roamed around Restalrig trying to find my car. I'd never been to Restalrig before so that was ... interesting. The other side of the stadium is like a whole different world.
Sunday had started when I got up and made breakfast for 'Dave' and I. Whilst we were arguing about long-life shopping bags, my blackberry buzzed and he called me a 'corporate whore'. It's all so romantic I'm fighting to contain my flowery prose. Anyway, he was heading home and I was going to buy something nice for my lunch to reward myself for all the family history research I was going to be doing.
When we got outside, I noticed that there were no cars in the street and realised there must be a football match on. My car wasn't there either. 'Dave' headed on home and I went to ask the policeman where my car was. "What's your registration?" "Er ... no." I replied shaking my head. I honestly don't know what my car registration is. Pathetic. But as I said at the start of this entry, I'm not so hot on the details.
"Can you phone your partner to get it?"
"It's OK, I've got a note of it in the flat. I'll just pop up and get it."
"Just give your partner a call, it'll be quicker."
"Er ... I don't have a 'partner'."
"Oh, right, was that not your partner? I thought ..."
"He's not my 'partner'."
"Oh. OK. He looked like he might be your partner."
"Well he's not. It's not that .... Anyway, it's my flat and it's my car and he doesn't know any more about it than I do. OK?"
"OK."
"I'll just go get that reg number for you."
"Well if you tell me what kind of car it is that'll do."
Honestly! He told me the car had been removed to Marionville Road and that would take about 15 minutes to walk to.
"I'll give you a lift if you like."
"No thanks. I'm fine with walking."
"But it's raining. I'll give you a wee lift round."
"No. It's fine. I could do with the exercise."
After picking up my car and my lunch, I set about the family history research. My paternal grandfather's mum's side of the family had been causing me problems. I'd located her death certificate and got her parents' names from that, but I couldn't find their marriage certificate. They've recently opened up a whole new set of records so I was able to get my great-grandparents' wedding certificate for 1932. This gave the same names for my great-great grandparents, but didn't give their wedding date ... because they never got married. (Oooh! How unconventional. I love it. However, that said, marriage certificates do make family history research much easier. So I now have a second pro for marriage. The first being that a well-crafted gift and guest list can furnish your entire flat. Still, that's 2 pros against 304 cons.) Apparently, my great-great grandad later committed suicide by sticking his head in a gas oven, but I've yet to find anything to support this. Maybe he did get married after all.
My mum's dad's side of the family is a headache too. They are all called James and Christina Thomson. All of them. So you get a guy called James Thomson marrying a woman called Christina Thomson (yes, same surname) and his parents are listed on his wedding certificate as James Thomson and Christina Thomson (nee Thomson), and her parents are listed as James and Christina Thomson (nee Thomson). Arrrggghhh! I phoned my mum to tell her that I've finally found an explanation for her squint pinky fingers. Disturbing. My great-great-great-great grandad on this side died of 'softening of the brain caused by sunstroke'. In Buckhaven?
Anyway, that's enough for now. I'll tell you about my embarrassing toe cleavage problems (no doubt due to the horrific levels of inbreeding amongst my ancestors) next time.
Friday, July 04, 2008
When beauty regimens go bad
Two months ago this guy came round to mine. Don't get too excited, I did know him - we'd been out a few times (a decent number of times). Let's call him Dave. I did. It's not his name and he did get quite annoyed, but names have never been my strong point.
Anyway, we had a lovely evening. He cooked. We skipped dessert. We headed through to the bedroom (insert 80s synth and saxophone music here). We were standing by the bed, I was facing 'Dave'. I reached down behind me and pulled back the duvet. My bedspread is red (this isn't just girly detail by the way, it's an important factor). Suddenly, Dave stopped kissing me. I noticed his expression had changed.
"What is it?" I asked.
He moved his head forward to indicate in the direction of the bed. "Eh, what's that?"
I froze. Even though I knew there was nothing weird or dodgy in my bed, I was reluctant to turn around. Eventually I did and I was totally shocked by what I saw.
There were numerous 'white patches' on my red fitted sheet. 'Oh my God, what the hell is that' I silently floundered. "Erm ... eh ... it's not what it looks like," I finally managed.
"Well, that is what it looks like."
"Well, it's not. It's definitely not. I mean I haven't. And if I had, I would have washed the sheets."
"Well, what is it then?"
My mind ticked over furiously. I couldn't think what it might be. C'mon, c'mon, what is it. After what seemed like an eternity, it finally clicked into place.
"Aha," I ventured victoriously. I turned back to face Dave with a proud smile. "It's heel cream!" I remembered that I'd been putting it on my heels every night. You're supposed to put socks on after you've applied it, but I loathe wearing socks in bed so I'd opted to dangle my feet over the edge until it had been absorbed. Obviously, I hadn't waited long enough and some of it had been absorbed by my sheets.
"Heel cream? What the fuck is heel cream?"
"It's cream, for putting on your heels so they're all silky and smooth in the summer."
Dave didn't look convinced.
"Look! I'll show you." I pulled open the top drawer on my bedside table and pulled out the heel cream. "See?" I said rattling the box.
He wasn't looking at me. He was staring at my open drawer. I looked down.
Next to the heel cream were three boxes of condoms.
"There was a three for two offer on at Boots," I offered sheepishly.
He burst out laughing and we lay down on the bed.
"I'm definitely not going to have to pay you after this am I?"
We ended up laughing ourselves to sleep.
Anyway, we had a lovely evening. He cooked. We skipped dessert. We headed through to the bedroom (insert 80s synth and saxophone music here). We were standing by the bed, I was facing 'Dave'. I reached down behind me and pulled back the duvet. My bedspread is red (this isn't just girly detail by the way, it's an important factor). Suddenly, Dave stopped kissing me. I noticed his expression had changed.
"What is it?" I asked.
He moved his head forward to indicate in the direction of the bed. "Eh, what's that?"
I froze. Even though I knew there was nothing weird or dodgy in my bed, I was reluctant to turn around. Eventually I did and I was totally shocked by what I saw.
There were numerous 'white patches' on my red fitted sheet. 'Oh my God, what the hell is that' I silently floundered. "Erm ... eh ... it's not what it looks like," I finally managed.
"Well, that is what it looks like."
"Well, it's not. It's definitely not. I mean I haven't. And if I had, I would have washed the sheets."
"Well, what is it then?"
My mind ticked over furiously. I couldn't think what it might be. C'mon, c'mon, what is it. After what seemed like an eternity, it finally clicked into place.
"Aha," I ventured victoriously. I turned back to face Dave with a proud smile. "It's heel cream!" I remembered that I'd been putting it on my heels every night. You're supposed to put socks on after you've applied it, but I loathe wearing socks in bed so I'd opted to dangle my feet over the edge until it had been absorbed. Obviously, I hadn't waited long enough and some of it had been absorbed by my sheets.
"Heel cream? What the fuck is heel cream?"
"It's cream, for putting on your heels so they're all silky and smooth in the summer."
Dave didn't look convinced.
"Look! I'll show you." I pulled open the top drawer on my bedside table and pulled out the heel cream. "See?" I said rattling the box.
He wasn't looking at me. He was staring at my open drawer. I looked down.
Next to the heel cream were three boxes of condoms.
"There was a three for two offer on at Boots," I offered sheepishly.
He burst out laughing and we lay down on the bed.
"I'm definitely not going to have to pay you after this am I?"
We ended up laughing ourselves to sleep.
Friday, June 27, 2008
When I grow up ...
Two weeks ago, I was in London. I'd gone down to press pass issue 2 of the magazine (yeah, like I know what I'm doing). The yellow on the page looked a bit more mustard than it should so I asked if they could "fix it". They added a bit more blue, but it threw the complexion of the guy in the photo way off, so we went back to the mustard and I stopped making suggestions in favour of smiling and nodding.
Anyway, I got finished up at the printers earlier than expected so I headed back to City Airport. Unfortunately, I'd foolishly booked myself on a cheaper ticket and couldn't change it. Three hours to kill and not a BA lounge in sight. "Dammit", I thought to myself, "I'm going to have to pay for my own drinks." I walked up to the bar and ordered myself a margarita (a steal at only £8.50). I took it through to the new (but not business) lounge and sat down.
I was due to participate in an audio call to the US about issue 3 and had to dial in from my mobile. After the call, I laughed myself silly for a full 10 minutes because it was almost exactly the kind of fantasy grown-up scenario I imagined when I was a kid. When I was about 10 or 11, high on Dynasty and 80s hedonism, I used to pretend I ran an international magazine and that I was always jetting about making important phone calls. So OK, it's not Vogue (nor anything like it), and it was City Airport and not New York, but still! It's not bad. If my 10-year old me, had been watching the now-me, I think she would have thought 'that's what I want to be' (except thinner, better looking and more glamorous - obviously).
That little recollection got me to thinking about the fantasy job I had before that. Yes people, I was the proud owner of a skateboard repair shop, which I operated out of the hut in our back garden. It was like being a mechanic ... but just for skateboards. The repairs were pretty limited to be honest - tightening or slackening the wheels. However, I was ambitious and subsequently branched out into skateboard design. Unfortunately, none of my imaginary customers ever commissioned a design, but there was a lot of critical acclaim (in my head - and the newspaper articles I used to write up). I'm going to stop now because it justs get more and more sad.
I did have friends as a kid. I think. And I definitely never hurt any pets. Honest.
Anyway, I got finished up at the printers earlier than expected so I headed back to City Airport. Unfortunately, I'd foolishly booked myself on a cheaper ticket and couldn't change it. Three hours to kill and not a BA lounge in sight. "Dammit", I thought to myself, "I'm going to have to pay for my own drinks." I walked up to the bar and ordered myself a margarita (a steal at only £8.50). I took it through to the new (but not business) lounge and sat down.
I was due to participate in an audio call to the US about issue 3 and had to dial in from my mobile. After the call, I laughed myself silly for a full 10 minutes because it was almost exactly the kind of fantasy grown-up scenario I imagined when I was a kid. When I was about 10 or 11, high on Dynasty and 80s hedonism, I used to pretend I ran an international magazine and that I was always jetting about making important phone calls. So OK, it's not Vogue (nor anything like it), and it was City Airport and not New York, but still! It's not bad. If my 10-year old me, had been watching the now-me, I think she would have thought 'that's what I want to be' (except thinner, better looking and more glamorous - obviously).
That little recollection got me to thinking about the fantasy job I had before that. Yes people, I was the proud owner of a skateboard repair shop, which I operated out of the hut in our back garden. It was like being a mechanic ... but just for skateboards. The repairs were pretty limited to be honest - tightening or slackening the wheels. However, I was ambitious and subsequently branched out into skateboard design. Unfortunately, none of my imaginary customers ever commissioned a design, but there was a lot of critical acclaim (in my head - and the newspaper articles I used to write up). I'm going to stop now because it justs get more and more sad.
I did have friends as a kid. I think. And I definitely never hurt any pets. Honest.
Monday, June 23, 2008
On trying to be a good citizen
Today at work, I gave blood. I'd been put on a 12 month ban following my Cambodia trip, so it was good to finally do it again. It was my ninth donation and, apparently, I get a badge the next time I donate. I'm trying to put that across and sound like a good citizen, but it's not really that impressive, as if I'd stuck to my three times a year promise I should have donated around 30 times by now. Hmmm.
As always, the form you have to fill in causes me no shortage of dilemma. One of the questions is 'Have you ever had sex with a man who has ever had sex with another man?' I mean, how are you supposed to know that? Occasionally I flirt with the idea of telling them about that one guy. The one whom I wouldn't be surprised to hear is actually gay. But I don't know for certain and it might just cause more hassle than it's worth - like the time my mum let slip my grandma was dead when she was trying to cash in my grandma's astronomically high BT shares. Bummer.
The other question that causes me problems is the one that asks 'Have you ever had sex for money?'
Now technically, the answer to that is of course 'no', but I have done it out of pity. Once. And I know a few people who have done it for jewellery. Oh, and one person who did it for a sports car. So what's the big difference? Why don't they just ask 'Are you, or have you ever been, a prostitute?', rather than making people who aren't prostitutes feel bad about themselves when all they're trying to do is be a good citizen.
Obviously the reason I would feel bad about myself is because I know that 'pity' is not a positive reason for having sex with someone. However, I also feel bad because at least the prostitutes had the good sense to get paid for something they didn't really want to do. So here's a new slogan for the Blood Donation Service ...
... Feel cheap and stupid:Give blood.
As always, the form you have to fill in causes me no shortage of dilemma. One of the questions is 'Have you ever had sex with a man who has ever had sex with another man?' I mean, how are you supposed to know that? Occasionally I flirt with the idea of telling them about that one guy. The one whom I wouldn't be surprised to hear is actually gay. But I don't know for certain and it might just cause more hassle than it's worth - like the time my mum let slip my grandma was dead when she was trying to cash in my grandma's astronomically high BT shares. Bummer.
The other question that causes me problems is the one that asks 'Have you ever had sex for money?'
Now technically, the answer to that is of course 'no', but I have done it out of pity. Once. And I know a few people who have done it for jewellery. Oh, and one person who did it for a sports car. So what's the big difference? Why don't they just ask 'Are you, or have you ever been, a prostitute?', rather than making people who aren't prostitutes feel bad about themselves when all they're trying to do is be a good citizen.
Obviously the reason I would feel bad about myself is because I know that 'pity' is not a positive reason for having sex with someone. However, I also feel bad because at least the prostitutes had the good sense to get paid for something they didn't really want to do. So here's a new slogan for the Blood Donation Service ...
... Feel cheap and stupid:Give blood.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
What's new with you?
Things with me are good. Really good. The majority of last year was a tough slog. Mostly just because of work. It was all worth it in the end though. Sinead and I had a fantastic time on our round-the-world trip. I think the fact that I worked so hard for it made it all the better. I'm not quite sure where I found the energy in the end, but I'm glad I did.
Another thing that made it better was the fact that I'd somehow managed to secure myself a much more nteresting and challenging new job for my return. This meant I was able to resign from the Cook Islands and flick it at the very people who had made things so tough for me, and enjoy my holiday in the knowledge that I'd never have to return to Mordor ever again. Woo. Hoo.
I have had plenty embarrassing escapades over the last six months and, knowing me, this is something that's likely to continue. I promise I'll try and document them all here.
Another thing that made it better was the fact that I'd somehow managed to secure myself a much more nteresting and challenging new job for my return. This meant I was able to resign from the Cook Islands and flick it at the very people who had made things so tough for me, and enjoy my holiday in the knowledge that I'd never have to return to Mordor ever again. Woo. Hoo.
I have had plenty embarrassing escapades over the last six months and, knowing me, this is something that's likely to continue. I promise I'll try and document them all here.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Sydneysiders
My sunburn didn't give me too much grief on the flight to Sydney, thankfully. We landed at the airport - minus any sniffer dogs or customs incidents - and got picked up by the lovely people at Base Sydney.
Again, Base does very well with its accommodation - we even have an LCD TV this time. We were both feeling a bit tired and really hungry. Shin consulted the Lonely Planet for its recommendations in the vicinity. "Liverpool Street has a plethora of Spanish restaurants, Lis." "I'm always happy to eat tapas stuff and Liverpool Street is pretty close," I said studying the freebie map I'd picked up at reception. "Let's do Captain Torres Lis!" "Gladly".
We set off at pace to find the legend that was Captain Torres. We walked one block and discovered Kent Street had now met Liverpool St."OK Lis, he's number 73. Let's go." "Shin, Shin, he's there. Right across the road!" "Ha ha ha. This is perfect. This is a sign. We're going to love Sydney."
Captain Torres was small and busy Spanish bar/restaurant with a cavern style and rustic feel to it. We took our seats and smiled heartily over the menus. We got an excellent bottle of Rioja which turned out to be the second best bottle I've had on the trip. The best was the Frog's Leap Zinfandel from our first night in Vegas. I'm so tracking these babies down when I get back home. We ordered a good amount, polished it all off, and smiled all the way back to Base.
On Tuesday the weather was fantastic and we set off on our sightseeing walk. Through Darling Harbour, down to Sydney Harbour Bridge - which is massive, around the Rocks area which is really picturesque and has lots of lovely outdoor bars and restaurants. We continued on past the Ferry terminals and round to the Opera House. It's so cool seeing something that you've seen so often on TV and in magazines.
After that we walked round through the Botanic Gardens and past the big outdoor cinema. There were hundreds of people out running and exercising. They had little running groups with coaches and stuff. It was totally full on and was making us feel slightly guilty so we agreed that we were probably power walking and burning off lots of calories. I saw a billboard that said: 'You need to run 4K to burn off two chocolate biscuits'. It made me think about all the Tim Tams I scoffed in the Cook Islands ... and New Zealand. But it was lunchtime and we were heading to Fratelli Paradiso so I could unleash my inner squid monster.
We walked through Wooloomooloo and kept repeating it to each other in our 'Australian accents'. I popped into Wooloomooloo pharmacy to get some more solarcaine and then we headed onto Kings Cross - or the 'Prozzie zone' as Shin liked to refer to it.
At Fratelli Paradiso, we took our seats and tried to freshen up. I had the squid and Sinead had the risotto. I also broke with my own personal protocol and ordered a dry riesling (all that wine tasting in NZ convinced me that white wine is OK after all). The food was delicious and we felt recharged and ready to hit the shops.
We did hit the shops - about an hour later - but they were rubbish. We decided the shops only cater for Nicole Kidman types (6ft tall, 6 inches wide and earning more than 6 figures) or 14 year old Asian girls who want to dress head-to-toe in Hello Kitty stuff. The best we could get was the surfer dude shops like Roxy, Quicksilver and Billabong. But that was it. Thoroughly knackered after our 20 mile hike we went home, had showers and went back to Liverpool Street for more Tapas and wine.
On Wednesday we went down to the Rocks because a woman had told Sinead there was a Gap in the DFS Galleria. We got there to discover it was nonsense and the DFS Galleria offered only Louis Vuitton, Bally, Armani and Ralph Lauren. We walked across the road to the pier to catch the ferry over to Manly. It was a really nice trip and we got great shots of the Opera House.
Manly was lovely and we bought some more stuff from Roxy and headed down to the beach. I was keeping the thighs under wraps given their recently acquired 3rd degree burns, and Shin was trying to remedy the farmer's tanline around her neck from the previous day.
Sinead's cousin Derek was picking us up at 5.30 so, after an entire day spent lying in the sun and dousing ourselves in factor 30, we tried our best to freshen up. We felt thoroughly mingin' and laughed about how awful we looked. I had sand all over my neck and in my hair - stuck to the suntan cream that was in there too.
Anyway, Derek picked us up, gave us a little tour of Manly and took us home to meet his lovely wife Ails and their two adorably gorgeous boys. We had champers and guava juice - which is delicious - some nibbles, and hot showers - woo hoo!
Derek and Ails took us out for dinner and for drinks at the Wharf Bar. It was all great. Shin and I waved goodbye and took the ferry back to Sydney. It was almost empty this time so we stood up the front and marveled at the illuminated city.
Thursday was another hot one and we were going out to Bondi beach to meet up with Lisa T, who was starting her 3 week holiday here. We took the train from Town Hall to Bondi Junction and checked out the shops at Westfield plaza. Again, there were lots of designer shops but not much like H&M. I told Shin I was off to look in the chemist at their sunburn remedies. "OK, I'll go and look at the pies," she said. The chemist didn't have anything I didn't already have, but I was pleased to be able to go and look at the pies too. There was a huge selection at this place called 'Pie Face' and they all had little smiley faces on them. Cute.
We looked around at a few more shops and tried on ridiculous head gear in Meyer department store. I tried on an enormous hat. - "You look like you're in Dallas Lis. - and Sinead tried on a comedy turban with some jewels on it. We amused ourselves like this for about 45 minutes and then decided to go have some lunch.
After that we got the bus out to Bondi beach, walked on the sand, people watched, had ice creams and sat in the sun with a few beers. Lisa T showed up around five, having just flown into Sydney from the UK that morning! She said she felt out of it and showed us her swollen ankles, but after a couple of beers and some dinner, she said she felt better. We checked out the hombres and agreed that the specimens were of good quality.
Around seven o'clock a huge thunderstorm arrived and dropped big fat dollops of rain on us. We jumped in a taxi back to Bondi Junction where Lisa went up to her apartment to get some much needed sleep and Shin and I caught the train back to Base.
I had to buy an emergency bag to fit all my extra stuff in, but got a good deal from Magda the Polish woman in the bag shop. "Ah, Lisa, you are from Scotland. I am from Poland. We are neighbours." I would never have described Scotland and Poland as neighbours before, but given how far away Australia is and the fact that I have to sit on my ass for 24 hours!!!! in order to get home, I said: "Of course we are."
So, just that big flight home now.
Again, Base does very well with its accommodation - we even have an LCD TV this time. We were both feeling a bit tired and really hungry. Shin consulted the Lonely Planet for its recommendations in the vicinity. "Liverpool Street has a plethora of Spanish restaurants, Lis." "I'm always happy to eat tapas stuff and Liverpool Street is pretty close," I said studying the freebie map I'd picked up at reception. "Let's do Captain Torres Lis!" "Gladly".
We set off at pace to find the legend that was Captain Torres. We walked one block and discovered Kent Street had now met Liverpool St."OK Lis, he's number 73. Let's go." "Shin, Shin, he's there. Right across the road!" "Ha ha ha. This is perfect. This is a sign. We're going to love Sydney."
Captain Torres was small and busy Spanish bar/restaurant with a cavern style and rustic feel to it. We took our seats and smiled heartily over the menus. We got an excellent bottle of Rioja which turned out to be the second best bottle I've had on the trip. The best was the Frog's Leap Zinfandel from our first night in Vegas. I'm so tracking these babies down when I get back home. We ordered a good amount, polished it all off, and smiled all the way back to Base.
On Tuesday the weather was fantastic and we set off on our sightseeing walk. Through Darling Harbour, down to Sydney Harbour Bridge - which is massive, around the Rocks area which is really picturesque and has lots of lovely outdoor bars and restaurants. We continued on past the Ferry terminals and round to the Opera House. It's so cool seeing something that you've seen so often on TV and in magazines.
After that we walked round through the Botanic Gardens and past the big outdoor cinema. There were hundreds of people out running and exercising. They had little running groups with coaches and stuff. It was totally full on and was making us feel slightly guilty so we agreed that we were probably power walking and burning off lots of calories. I saw a billboard that said: 'You need to run 4K to burn off two chocolate biscuits'. It made me think about all the Tim Tams I scoffed in the Cook Islands ... and New Zealand. But it was lunchtime and we were heading to Fratelli Paradiso so I could unleash my inner squid monster.
We walked through Wooloomooloo and kept repeating it to each other in our 'Australian accents'. I popped into Wooloomooloo pharmacy to get some more solarcaine and then we headed onto Kings Cross - or the 'Prozzie zone' as Shin liked to refer to it.
At Fratelli Paradiso, we took our seats and tried to freshen up. I had the squid and Sinead had the risotto. I also broke with my own personal protocol and ordered a dry riesling (all that wine tasting in NZ convinced me that white wine is OK after all). The food was delicious and we felt recharged and ready to hit the shops.
We did hit the shops - about an hour later - but they were rubbish. We decided the shops only cater for Nicole Kidman types (6ft tall, 6 inches wide and earning more than 6 figures) or 14 year old Asian girls who want to dress head-to-toe in Hello Kitty stuff. The best we could get was the surfer dude shops like Roxy, Quicksilver and Billabong. But that was it. Thoroughly knackered after our 20 mile hike we went home, had showers and went back to Liverpool Street for more Tapas and wine.
On Wednesday we went down to the Rocks because a woman had told Sinead there was a Gap in the DFS Galleria. We got there to discover it was nonsense and the DFS Galleria offered only Louis Vuitton, Bally, Armani and Ralph Lauren. We walked across the road to the pier to catch the ferry over to Manly. It was a really nice trip and we got great shots of the Opera House.
Manly was lovely and we bought some more stuff from Roxy and headed down to the beach. I was keeping the thighs under wraps given their recently acquired 3rd degree burns, and Shin was trying to remedy the farmer's tanline around her neck from the previous day.
Sinead's cousin Derek was picking us up at 5.30 so, after an entire day spent lying in the sun and dousing ourselves in factor 30, we tried our best to freshen up. We felt thoroughly mingin' and laughed about how awful we looked. I had sand all over my neck and in my hair - stuck to the suntan cream that was in there too.
Anyway, Derek picked us up, gave us a little tour of Manly and took us home to meet his lovely wife Ails and their two adorably gorgeous boys. We had champers and guava juice - which is delicious - some nibbles, and hot showers - woo hoo!
Derek and Ails took us out for dinner and for drinks at the Wharf Bar. It was all great. Shin and I waved goodbye and took the ferry back to Sydney. It was almost empty this time so we stood up the front and marveled at the illuminated city.
Thursday was another hot one and we were going out to Bondi beach to meet up with Lisa T, who was starting her 3 week holiday here. We took the train from Town Hall to Bondi Junction and checked out the shops at Westfield plaza. Again, there were lots of designer shops but not much like H&M. I told Shin I was off to look in the chemist at their sunburn remedies. "OK, I'll go and look at the pies," she said. The chemist didn't have anything I didn't already have, but I was pleased to be able to go and look at the pies too. There was a huge selection at this place called 'Pie Face' and they all had little smiley faces on them. Cute.
We looked around at a few more shops and tried on ridiculous head gear in Meyer department store. I tried on an enormous hat. - "You look like you're in Dallas Lis. - and Sinead tried on a comedy turban with some jewels on it. We amused ourselves like this for about 45 minutes and then decided to go have some lunch.
After that we got the bus out to Bondi beach, walked on the sand, people watched, had ice creams and sat in the sun with a few beers. Lisa T showed up around five, having just flown into Sydney from the UK that morning! She said she felt out of it and showed us her swollen ankles, but after a couple of beers and some dinner, she said she felt better. We checked out the hombres and agreed that the specimens were of good quality.
Around seven o'clock a huge thunderstorm arrived and dropped big fat dollops of rain on us. We jumped in a taxi back to Bondi Junction where Lisa went up to her apartment to get some much needed sleep and Shin and I caught the train back to Base.
I had to buy an emergency bag to fit all my extra stuff in, but got a good deal from Magda the Polish woman in the bag shop. "Ah, Lisa, you are from Scotland. I am from Poland. We are neighbours." I would never have described Scotland and Poland as neighbours before, but given how far away Australia is and the fact that I have to sit on my ass for 24 hours!!!! in order to get home, I said: "Of course we are."
So, just that big flight home now.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Great Barrier Grief
Another glorious day in Cairns and we set off on our Great Barrier Reef Cruise. The boat was reputedly the fastest to the reef, which I was pleased about given my terrible habit of throwing up when I'm on one. Another bonus was the fact that it catered for snorkeling and scuba diving which meant Shin and I didn't have to book separate cruises to get what we wanted.
I sensibly took some of the anti-sea sickness tablets that were on offer and they seemed to serve me well. We got out to the reef and Sinead suited up in her anti-jellyfish outfit and headed out for a spot of snorkeling. I got tanked up for some scuba and set off. The Scuba guy had been running through a list of things we might see in the water - "turtles, clown fish, wasse and lots of Japanese" - surprise, surprise.
Annoyingly, the Scuba guys insisted on linking arms with everyone in the group. There were only five of us, but it still freaked me out. The old Japanese guy on my right kept doing breast-stroke arms and was getting dangerously close to my regulator. Then he'd let go of my arm to take some pictures and flap about frantically trying to get hold of my again. I was deliberately making my arm as inaccessible as possible and it turned into some kind of underwater Benny Hill sketch as he tried to catch up to me and link arms again.
Back on the boat we had a barbecue lunch and set off for our second reef spot. I decided to do a second dive for the bargain basement price of 17 quid. Knowing that I always feel less sick on deck than I do inside, I headed up to the sunbathers' area and set out my towel next to some girls wearing the tiniest thongs I've ever seen. They were all really brown and oiling themselves up. Still, with all my scuba and diving off the back of the boat I felt like Princess Di so I didn't mind lying next to the professional tan team too much.
Sinead joined me for a bit and said: "This is the life Lis. I feel like we're celebrities." "I know. I was just thinking I feel like Princess Di." "Ha ha. I feel like the paps should be taking pictures of me so readers back home can discuss my beach body."
My second dive was much better. The water was clearer, the colours more vibrant and I didn't have to hold anyone's arm. I saw some more clams but they weren't as big as the giant one in the Cook Islands, and I found Nemo. There were millions of them. I went up and did some snorkeling. Shin and I tried to take some pictures of each other under water, so we'll see how those turn out.
I headed back onto the boat so I could take up my position on the sun deck for the journey back home. The thong brigade hadn't moved - I think they must have been real celebrities. Anyway, it was roasting so I kept topping up my sun cream and I was glad when the boat started off for home and I got a bit of a cooling breeze. It was great. I was lying on a speedboat on the other side of the world, getting some sun, not feeling sick and being pleased with myself cause scuba counts as exercise. Total celebrity!
A Japanese woman wearing a leopard and zebra print kaftan (make your mind up hen) sat down beside me and started munching on a sandwich. It was really windy so every time she went to take a bit, some of it would fly out and hit me in the face. "Oh, I'm so sorry," she said picking her tuna off my face. At first I didn't say anything and her apology was enough, but it happened another 2 times so I lost it and felt compelled to say: "Will you please get your sandwich under control!" Gross.
She eventually went back inside and left me food free, which I was pleased about. As the boat came back into the harbour, I got my stuff together and noticed the tops of my thighs were looking suspiciously pink. "Arggh! This is not a good sign." Needless to say, I spent that night with my legs covered in Solarcaine and wet towels. To make matters worse, every second advert on TV was about skin cancer. "Quick. Turn it over Shin. I can't bear to watch." Admittedly, I was feeling distinctly less like a celebrity after that.
I sensibly took some of the anti-sea sickness tablets that were on offer and they seemed to serve me well. We got out to the reef and Sinead suited up in her anti-jellyfish outfit and headed out for a spot of snorkeling. I got tanked up for some scuba and set off. The Scuba guy had been running through a list of things we might see in the water - "turtles, clown fish, wasse and lots of Japanese" - surprise, surprise.
Annoyingly, the Scuba guys insisted on linking arms with everyone in the group. There were only five of us, but it still freaked me out. The old Japanese guy on my right kept doing breast-stroke arms and was getting dangerously close to my regulator. Then he'd let go of my arm to take some pictures and flap about frantically trying to get hold of my again. I was deliberately making my arm as inaccessible as possible and it turned into some kind of underwater Benny Hill sketch as he tried to catch up to me and link arms again.
Back on the boat we had a barbecue lunch and set off for our second reef spot. I decided to do a second dive for the bargain basement price of 17 quid. Knowing that I always feel less sick on deck than I do inside, I headed up to the sunbathers' area and set out my towel next to some girls wearing the tiniest thongs I've ever seen. They were all really brown and oiling themselves up. Still, with all my scuba and diving off the back of the boat I felt like Princess Di so I didn't mind lying next to the professional tan team too much.
Sinead joined me for a bit and said: "This is the life Lis. I feel like we're celebrities." "I know. I was just thinking I feel like Princess Di." "Ha ha. I feel like the paps should be taking pictures of me so readers back home can discuss my beach body."
My second dive was much better. The water was clearer, the colours more vibrant and I didn't have to hold anyone's arm. I saw some more clams but they weren't as big as the giant one in the Cook Islands, and I found Nemo. There were millions of them. I went up and did some snorkeling. Shin and I tried to take some pictures of each other under water, so we'll see how those turn out.
I headed back onto the boat so I could take up my position on the sun deck for the journey back home. The thong brigade hadn't moved - I think they must have been real celebrities. Anyway, it was roasting so I kept topping up my sun cream and I was glad when the boat started off for home and I got a bit of a cooling breeze. It was great. I was lying on a speedboat on the other side of the world, getting some sun, not feeling sick and being pleased with myself cause scuba counts as exercise. Total celebrity!
A Japanese woman wearing a leopard and zebra print kaftan (make your mind up hen) sat down beside me and started munching on a sandwich. It was really windy so every time she went to take a bit, some of it would fly out and hit me in the face. "Oh, I'm so sorry," she said picking her tuna off my face. At first I didn't say anything and her apology was enough, but it happened another 2 times so I lost it and felt compelled to say: "Will you please get your sandwich under control!" Gross.
She eventually went back inside and left me food free, which I was pleased about. As the boat came back into the harbour, I got my stuff together and noticed the tops of my thighs were looking suspiciously pink. "Arggh! This is not a good sign." Needless to say, I spent that night with my legs covered in Solarcaine and wet towels. To make matters worse, every second advert on TV was about skin cancer. "Quick. Turn it over Shin. I can't bear to watch." Admittedly, I was feeling distinctly less like a celebrity after that.
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